


Creatures of the Wind, Part 5

by Sebastian_Jack



Series: Creatures of the Wind [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath, Azkaban, Courtroom Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-War, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebastian_Jack/pseuds/Sebastian_Jack
Summary: In the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts, things tie up rather neatly for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Not so for George and Ophelia.
Relationships: George Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Creatures of the Wind [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562572
Comments: 27
Kudos: 41





	1. This Time Imperfect

It had been such a long day, clearing out all of the aberrant creatures and deadly oddities from Number 12 Grimmauld Place. After her run-in with the Boggart in the wardrobe, Fred and George hadn’t let Ophelia out of their sight again. She was distantly bothered by it, knowing they felt they needed to protect her. As though she were something fragile, something helpless. But she kept the thought to herself. She would never disparage a single moment spent in their company.

Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys were down in the kitchen with Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks. Moody had dragged Mundungus unceremoniously from the gathering for a thorough frisking, after he’d been caught trying to sneak from the house loaded for bear. For the first time in decades, the house felt something like a home, again.

But Fred, George, and Ophelia had snuck away into Regulus’ room, that perhaps they could have a few minutes alone and undisturbed. A few minutes in which to simply exist in the company of one another. But all at once, they became aware of how much hung unspoken, between them. There was much she couldn’t tell them, so much they knew not to ask about. The silence, while so safe and comforting for Ophelia, seemed to be quietly driving the twins mad. She could tell by the way they were fidgeting against her, by the way she kept hearing them open their mouths and inhale as if to speak, only to be left waiting.

“I hope you’re not doing all this just for us,” Fred finally managed, slipping his arms around her as they lay on the bed.

She craned her neck to look at him. “What?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. It’s dangerous.”

George nodded in somber agreement.

She was baffled by it. “What are you talking about? Hey—” She sat up, looking down at them as they lay beside each other on the bed. “Is there some better reason you have in mind?”

They shrugged again, avoiding her gaze.

“Right thing for the wrong reasons, you know…” George tentatively offered.

“What? How is this the _wrong reason_?”

Again, they shrugged.

“Voldemort does the things he does because he’s been poisoned by hate,” she confidently appraised. The twins flinched at the sound of the name, but she soldiered on. “What better weapon could we hope to wield against him than love?”

“It’s not that,” Fred argued feebly, “I just don’t reckon I could live with myself if you… I dunno…”

“Died for us,” George finished.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my darlings,” she reassured gently, lying back down between them, “No one is going to _die_.”

“ _Ophelia_.”

Fred took her hand, pressing his lips to her palm. “Promise?”

She smiled softly. “I promise. When this is all over, we’ll move into the little flat above the shop, and have a wonderful life together.”

“ _Ophelia_?”

“Make an Unbreakable Vow,” George teased, already giggling at his own joke, “If you _promise_.”

“What?” she laughed, “That doesn’t make any sense! Make an Unbreakable Vow that I’m not going to _die_? How on earth—”

“ _Ophelia_!”

She awoke with a start to see George standing over her, dressed head to toe in black.

And, as the memories came flooding back, all of the warmth and light seemed to drain from the world. All of the red and orange hues died and turned grey, all of the cheerful music faded and fell silent.

She was in a cold, empty bed, in a cold, empty room, where Fred Weasley had grown up but would never, ever be again. No stolen broom leaning against the window, no hastily-cast-off clothing scattered about the floor. No fire whiskey or Muggle banknotes on the nightstand. Not now, and never again.

“Come on, love,” George murmured, rubbing at his forehead, “Time to get ready. People are arriving, downstairs.”

She had never seen him wear all black before, and she never would again.

Ophelia dragged herself from the bed and donned her heavy dress in silence. It was a suppressive, uncomfortable garment, but that was how she wanted it. She would allow herself no comfort, that day. George laced up the corset before she could ask, his well-practiced hands moving automatically through the motions. She pinned the fascinator to her hair, drawing the birdcage veil down over her face. Hiding behind it. Shrinking back.

It was an unseasonably cold morning in the Devon countryside. George pulled their cloaks from the wardrobe, digging out the nice, black Oxfords that he hadn’t worn since Bill and Fleur’s wedding. And then, as he slipped his foot into one of the shoes, something exploded. He fell backwards, clutching at his burned foot. Ophelia screamed, lunging forward to catch him as he fell, and they watched as the shoe suddenly began spewing brightly colored sparks. They whistled and spun through the room for a few, chaotic moments, and then as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

“Th-the _wanker_!” George stammered, still clutching at his foot with shaking hands, “That bloody f-fucking _wanker_!”

“What?” Ophelia demanded, coursing with adrenaline from the shock of it, “What _was_ that?”

“ _He put firecrackers in my shoes_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fred's final antic was inspired by a real-life posthumous prank pulled by the legendary skier and joke-master Shane McConkey. He died in a ski accident in Italy, and when his friends had to fly home with his body, they found that all their passports and money had been stolen, and it was a massive hassle trying to get back to the U.S. It was only afterwards that they discovered their things had been quite deliberately hidden in Shane's luggage, before he died.


	2. The Missing Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a missing man, easy to find,  
> With eyes like mine.
> 
> Alternate Title: George and Ophelia Have a Bad Time

After the funeral, George and Ophelia returned to 93 Diagon Alley. It wasn’t something they’d discussed, per se. There was no need to. Now, she truly had no home. And neither of them could bear to be apart. So, together, they returned to the hallowed ground of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

It was then that the weight of it all truly settled onto their shoulders. Hand-in hand, they entered the uncharacteristically darkened shop to find it ransacked. So much was missing, and what remained was broken beyond repair. Shelves toppled, glass cases shattered. Brightly colored packages lay strewn across the floor, with their contents scattered carelessly. _Fucking Golden Trio_ , she thought bitterly.

“Yeah,” George sighed, gripping her hand a little tighter. “This is exactly what it feels like, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “It is.”

They ascended the stairs along the left wall, towards the flat. George tapped his wand against the keyhole, and the door swung open, revealing the home to be mercifully untouched. At least the kids had had the decency to lock up.

One detail caught Ophelia’s eye, nearly instantly. One small thing that she’d somehow been entirely unprepared to see. Her hand slipped from George’s grip, and she sank to her knees in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on a wide stain that had spread through the rug.

“Our whiskey,” she murmured weakly, “From… That Christmas. Our one Christmas.”

The eulogy she had delivered for Fred had been beautiful, George thought. Through the somber silence, she’d stepped up beside his grave, which had been all but invisible for the mounds of flowers. She’d lifted her scarred and tearstained face to the crowd, and said five words:

“Fred… Was the handsome one.”

That was all. And it was perfect. Precisely what he would’ve wanted. Everyone had laughed, even their mother. George had opened his arms to his lover, as she stepped away from the grave, and then they laughed and wept together. Clinging to one another as they’d always done.

George had spoken, too. Stood beside the grave of his twin brother, his best friend, and said… Something. He wasn’t sure precisely what. It was as if those minutes had been blanketed in a thick, impenetrable fog. And maybe the fog would clear, someday. But for now, it was too painful.

All at once, George remembered what was happening. Where they were. He sank to the floor beside his lover, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Ophelia.” He sounded to her as though he were on the verge of tears. Then again, neither of them had been far from tears, lately.

Behind them, the door closed with a resonating finality. And with that, they were alone. Without color, without light. No more cinnamon-whiskey burn, or firelight warmth. Never again, for the rest of their lives. And there was nothing more to do but keep living. Keep drawing breath. Without him.

They clung to one another as they knelt atop the stained carpet. Her fingernails pierced into the skin of his shoulder, his hand balled into a tight fist in her hair. And together, they wept for the one they’d lost.

That night, they lay awake for a long time. He held her, of course, and she was grateful for it. But the silence between them was palpable. Everything felt hollowed out and empty. Like the world had somehow turned to glass, and could shatter if they weren’t careful.

When George spoke, it made her start in surprise. It wasn’t as though she’d sensed he was about to speak, nor had she herself been struggling with something to say. While the silence had offered her no comfort, neither did it inflict pain.

“How can you look at me, anymore?” he asked.

She stammered for a moment, blinking away the grey haze of half-sleep. “What?”

“Ophelia, how can you stand to look at me?” he repeated, in a voice that was heavy with sorrow.

She rolled over to face him, laying her hand on his cheek. To her surprise, he had tears streaming silently down his face. She couldn’t begin to guess how long that had been going on.

“What are you talking about?” she asked gently, “Why wouldn’t I be able to look at you, darling?”

“I’ve got…” The words stuck in his throat. “It’s his face, too.”

She didn’t know what to say. So, instead, she pulled him into her arms, and settled his tearstained cheek against her chest. “Oh, my love…”

Grief and fear are twins, she thought. And guilt is their dark, deadly companion.

For a long time, they kept strange hours. They slept in shifts, almost guarding one another. George would sit awake for long, silent nights, staring blank-faced at nothing in particular. Playing back each and every memory he had, searching for something to dream about.

Occasionally, he would speak in odd, disjointed phrases, like, “That aging potion, Ophelia... That’s a bloody clever idea… No wards, or anything…” or, “Need to de-gnome that… That garden, today, you know… Can’t put it off, mum will go spare…”

He lingered in the shop, gently righting all of the damage by hand. As though putting it back together could somehow put everything else back together. Ophelia would catch him standing in front of the mirror in silence, turning his head side to side, cycling through odd facial expressions. He’d press his palm against the reflection, sometimes reaching up to cover and uncover the scar on the side of his head. Sometimes he would lock himself away and shake with silent, inexpressible rage. Other times, he would crawl into bed beside his lover and weep at the smell of her hair until he fell asleep. He tried, once, to rest his forehead between her shoulder blades. But it wasn’t the same.

Ophelia drank. Sometimes, she would slip out onto the balcony and smoke one of her long, black cigarettes, paying no mind to the multi-colored smoke as it traced thin, swirling ladders to the stars. She would cry, while George silently did his best to comfort her. Just a palm on her back, or fingers running absently through her hair. All the while, she stayed wrapped in Fred’s maroon dressing gown, so it would feel like he was pressed against her skin. Mostly, she slept. She slept as though she’d wake up one morning to find that none of it had happened; to find that it was Christmas morning, and they were late for dinner at the Burrow. And when she dreamed, she dreamed of Fred. Of that thrilling number of hands.

One night, George awoke to find her on her knees in the living room, sobbing and screaming. It was a harsh, serrated sound. Visceral. It was the same sound his heart was making, and he couldn’t hear it aloud for one more second. He knew that if she didn’t stop, his mind would snap into two pieces.

But he was afraid to speak. Afraid that, if he opened his mouth, he’d start making the same noise.

She had to stop. So, he went over and sat down beside her, placing a hand on her back.

“I can’t bear it!” she gasped, clutching at her chest, “Not for another second, George, I just want to die!”

He found his voice, then. He had no choice. “Stop that,” he said softly, wiping a tear from his cheek.

She gasped sharply, and all at once, an eerie stillness came over her. “I saw it,” she murmured, gazing down at her shaking hands.

“Saw what?”

“I knew he was going to die,” she announced, a tone of horror creeping into her voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“I read it,” she quivered, tracing her fingertip in mad, shaking patterns across her own palm, “When we were kids, I saw it, and it said he wouldn’t live to his 21st birthday. And I never said anything, I never told him! _You_ said that Divination wasn’t real, so I just called him a wanker, and—”

George cut her off. “That’s rubbish, Ophelia.”

“Listen to me!” she begged, voice rising in panic again, “Remember what I said, that night? Successful in business, after a sudden, unexpected inheritance!”

“Ophelia, stop.”

“ _No, I won’t stop_! I told him he’d meet his great love, and they’d be together for the rest of his life, but they’d never marry!” she wailed, seeming to have entirely abandoned the need to breathe, “I told him we’d never get married, George, but I didn’t know it was me, and maybe it could’ve been for some other reason! I didn’t know it was _me_ , I didn’t know _I_ was the one, and it all came true! _All of it_!”

“No.”

“Yes!” she argued, snatching for his right hand, and holding it up beside her own. “ _Look_! You and I, we’ve both got heartbreak in the same place! And he didn’t have that! Because that’s what _this_ is, _right now_! This is our terrible heartbreak!”

He took his hand away, tears continuing to stream silently down his face.

“And then the mirror,” she gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth, “I saw it in the mirror at the Burrow, Georgie, I _saw_ it! Oh god, I saw it, and I did _nothing_!”

“Ophelia, stop."

“I just want to die,” she moaned, taking fistfuls of his shirt and hanging from him, “I feel so guilty, it makes me sick. It’s too much. I can do it myself, it’ll be so easy, just hold me while I do it, and then—”

“ _Stop it_!” he suddenly shouted, taking her by the shoulders and wrenching her upright. He gave her a rough shake, staring into her eyes. “Don’t you _dare_! Don’t you _dare_ use that fucking thing, Ophelia, I _swear_!!”

“Why not? Give me one good reason!” she sobbed, “ _Please_ , Georgie, just _let_ me—”

“ _How the hell do you expect me to get through this without you_?!”

At the very least, it seemed to shock her into silence. Like an icy wave, the awareness of her own selfishness cascaded over here. He’d lost his brother. Lost his twin, his reflection. His best friend. She couldn’t leave him, too. And, all at once, her anger and panic and sorrow twisted into self-hatred and humiliation.

With no gentleness, he pulled her into his arms, pressing her tear streaked face to his chest. She could feel him shaking, feel the hitch of stifled sobs tugging at his shoulders.

“I— I cannot—Do this without you,” he struggled, the words coming with great difficulty, “Don’t—Don’t you _dare_ even _think_ of—Of leaving me, now, Ophelia. I won’t be able to do it.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, clasping her hands behind his back. “I’m sorry, George, I—”

“You _have_ to stay!” he commanded shakily, “You have to keep going, for me!”

“I will,” she weakly reassured him, “I promise you, I will.”

“For _me_ , Ophelia!” he impressed, “We’re all each other has left!”

She reached up, weaving her fingers through his hair. “I know we are.”

The following night, it was George’s turn to break. After all, it had been such a misplaced protective instinct for him to try and hold it together. He didn’t have to. And he couldn’t any longer. The guilt and fear had laid him out with a glassy, crushing wave. He crept into the bedroom while she slept, kneeling beside the bed and shaking her gently.

“Ophelia,” he whispered, voice hitching on his tears.

“Mmm?” she lazily rolled towards him.

“ _Ophelia_!”

He shook her again, and her eyes snapped open. His face was red and tearstained, his hair hanging in an off-kilter ponytail.

She sat up, taking his hand. “What is it, love?”

“It—” he stammered, “It shouldn’t have been him!”

“Oh, love…” She placed a hand on his cheek, tears springing to her own eyes as she blinked the sleep away.

“It should’ve been…” he heaved a ragged gasp, “I don’t know, _Percy_ , instead! He bloody well earned it!”

“What? Georgie, no! Don’t say that!” she breathed, “Come up here.”

He crawled gratefully into the bed with her, curling up with his head in her lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist, clinging to her as though he were afraid she’d fade away, too. She loosed his long hair, combing it back with her fingernails as he sobbed, tears streaming now steadily down his cheeks.

“Not Freddie,” he wept, “ _Anyone_ but Freddie.”

“It should’ve been me,” she said impulsively. There was no sadness in her voice, only acceptance. A kind of resignation to the hopelessness of it. She leaned her head back against the wall, sighing deeply. “I was so ready to die in this war, George. Giving my life for yours, that… That would have been a death to be proud of. And it was the end I’d written for myself. I never, ever thought I’d make it this far. So, if I could trade with him, I would. If I could bring him back to you, I would. No matter the cost.”

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he commanded, wiping the tears from his face, “I’m fucking serious, Ophelia.”

“Well, then, don’t _you_ start talking about who it should’ve been,” she countered, rubbing her hand up and down his bare back. She could feel the serration of his ribs beneath his skin, and worried over it for a moment. “So many that walked away that day deserve death. Like my father, like the Malfoys. And so many who died deserve life. But we have no power to give it to them, my love.”

He crawled up higher, leaning her back and resting his cheek between her breasts. What was left of them, anyway. She realized that she, too, had begun to wither away. Nevertheless, she held him tightly to her chest, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I wish we could,” he admitted, oddly.

“Mmm,” she sighed, nodding serenely. “Don’t be so eager to deal out death and judgement, my love. The weight of taking a life is heavier than you think.”

He sniffled, letting his eyes fall closed at the feeling of her fingers in his hair. “Heavier than this?”

She sighed. “No. Nothing could be heavier than this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't bring myself to write George's eulogy for Fred. Ophelia's is pretty good though, I think.


	3. Heroes

One morning, George awoke to find her curled up in her high-backed chair, wrapped in Fred’s dressing gown, as usual. She was gazing through the large, bay window, watching the sun crest over the London skyline. A shattered wine bottle lay on the floor beside her. He could see she’d been crying. She was always crying.

“Morning, love,” he softly greeted, walking over to kiss her on the cheek.

She murmured some soft, monosyllabic reply.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, kneeling down in front of her.

She shook her head, blinking hard.

With a sad sigh, he ran a hand through her hair, combing it back behind her ears. He wondered if it had been a conscious thing, on her part, to leave it draped across the scar on her face. And then he noticed the new brand, the trickle of dried blood trailing down through the hollow of her cheek. Instead of one black X on her cheekbone, she now bore two. He traced his thumb across them, brow knitting with quiet concern.

“Are they people you’ve lost?” he asked softly.

She tugged Fred’s dressing gown a little tighter. “Not quite.”

He exhaled a sorrowful murmur. “Oh, love.” He scooped her up into his arms, taking her place on the chair and setting her in his lap.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” she asked him.

He rubbed his hand up and down her back. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how cross he’d be if he saw how sad we are all the time.”

George exhaled a short, tragic laugh. “I reckon you’re right. I mean, you were always sad. What was it he used to say? Loving you is like loving the dead? But now you’ve gotten me involved, as well.”

Tentatively, she offered, “Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing creepy boots and corsets.” The joke left an odd taste on her tongue. It seemed an unfamiliar thing, so out of place in their melancholy. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but picture it: her lover, tall and thick with muscle, clad in one of her forbidding, black dresses. Tightlaced into a corset. Maybe he’d have a cameo choker, and long, black fingernails. The corner of her mouth twitched with the threat of a smile, and George laughed, the sound injecting some warmth into her icy sadness.

“I think I could do with a great, massive Hippogriff tattooed across my chest, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “More like a Pygmy Puff on your arse.”

“Easy!” he chuckled, jostling her lightly.

“What do you think he’d do?” she probed, gazing up at him imploringly.

“To cheer us up?” He seemed to consider it for a moment. “I know what he’d do to _you_.”

Finally, her face split with a hard-won smile. She turned away, trying to hide the fact that she was, of all things, _blushing_. George was relieved beyond description to see it. He traced a finger up her cheek, and she leaned into it gratefully. But her face twitched with discomfort as he passed over the massive, jagged scar.

“I don’t understand what it is you see,” she said softly, taking his hand away from her face.

He cast her a bemused expression. “What are you on about?”

She muttered something in reply, but the only words he caught were, “Fucking hideous scar.”

“Hey,” he scolded lightly, “Don’t you ever say that again.”

“I mean it,” she insisted, running her fingers along the knotted tissue, “I’m one of those people, now, where they’ll say, ‘Oh, she used to be such a _pretty_ little girl, it’s a shame what happened,’ and I don’t know why you put up with it.”

“What do you reckon this is, then?” he chuckled, pointing to his missing ear, and the strange web of scars encroaching on the left side of his face. “Bold fashion statement?”

“I’m not talking about that,” she grumbled defensively.

He rolled his eyes, tugging her closer. “Ah, you vainglorious little thing. I don’t give a damn about your stupid scar.”

“You ought to,” she murmured. There was a question gnawing away at her insides; it was something she’d been meaning to ask him for a while, but it seemed like the moment was never right. And now… She supposed it was as good an opportunity as she’d ever get. Her voice was small and tentative as she asked, “Did… Did you see who cast it?”

She could feel him tense his grip on her. “Yeah, I did.”

“Who was it?”

He hesitated for a moment, before answering. “Your uncle.”

“Which one? They were both—”

“Lestrange.”

She nodded, wholly unsurprised. “Of course, it was.”

_And when he couldn’t get me, he turned his wand to… God, why did I leave him there?_

After a long pause, she added, “But I handled him.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged grimly, “You did.”

It was a difficult subject, for George. It had been shocking to witness the things she did to Rodolphus on that battlefield. It had been so alien to see this sweet, gentle, _funny_ person he loved so much become so completely unhinged. She had been so wild and hate-fueled, casting curse after curse, drawing out his death.

Yes, it had been shocking, to say the least.

But what bothered him most of all was one, simple, gnawing question: _If she hadn’t done it, would_ I _have?_ He didn’t know. And that was a frightening thing to have to reckon with.

They were silent for a long time, just holding one another and watching the sun rise over the skyline. It was a beautiful morning, she realized. She’d forgotten entirely that mornings had the capacity to be beautiful.

“I miss him, Georgie,” she suddenly blurted, looking up at him with an expression that was so frank and self-evident.

“I do, too.” His gaze flitted down to her lips, and he murmured a soft, “Come here, beautiful.”

He took her lightly by the chin, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to her mouth. She slipped her hand around the back of his neck, burying her fingers in his long hair. She kissed him like was going to leave her, too. As though he would slip from her grasp and be lost entirely.

He was fumbling around with something, she realized. And before she could ask what he was doing, the record player across the room spun to life. She pulled back to see a wide, self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Georgie, no,” she begged, wearily.

“Come on,” he coaxed, standing and setting her on her feet.

“Love, I’m really not—”

“Come _on_!” He beckoned to her, backing up towards the open center of the room.

“ _You… You can be mean._

_And I… I’ll drink all the time_.”

“Do it for Freddie!” he goaded, smiling broadly as he began to sway, “Come on over here, love, make him proud!”

She furrowed her brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “Georgie, don’t be cruel.”

“‘ _Cause we’re lovers,_

_And that is a fact.”_

“Why not?” he laughed heartily, “He’d approve, the wanker!”

_“Yes, we’re lovers,_

_And that is that.”_

She rolled her eyes, unable to argue. “Oh, sod it all, George Gideon!”

With that, she extended a hand out towards him, and he took it, triumphantly yanking her into his arms. He leaned down to nuzzle into her face, creating a string of points of contact between them as they swayed. Forehead, nose, hands, chest. And then lips.

George threw his head back and sang along, “ _I! I will be King! And you, you will be Queen!”_

She laughed, kicking her leg up high as he dipped her backwards.

“ _And nothing will drive them away_!” he howled, “ _We can be heroes, just for one day. We can be us!! Just for one day!”_

His joy was frustratingly infectious. And as he twirled her around in circles, Ophelia couldn’t help but succumb to it.

She threw her head back and belted, “ _I! I can remember!”_

George swooped in with background vocals. “ _I remember!”_

She laughed. “ _Standing! By the wall_!”

“ _By the wall_!”

She took him by the back of the neck, throwing her other hand high. “ _And the guns! Shot above our heads!”_

_“Over our heads!”_

_“And we kissed!! As though nothing would fall!”_

This time, he took her face in both of his hands, and pressed his lips hard against hers. She couldn’t help but melt into it, feeling some of the warmth return to the empty cage of her chest.

“ _And the shame, was on the other side._

_Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever,_

_Then we could be heroes,_

_Just for one day.”_

George took her left hand and held it high, steering her through joyful steps by her waist. She clung to his shoulder, hair flying wildly as they spun. It was beautiful. It was pure and innocent, like the sweet, naïve summer nights of their youth. And for a moment, George and Ophelia felt truly happy. They had no need for sadness, because they could feel Fred was there with them. He occupied the space between them, filling it with warmth and light. Making sure they smiled. Making sure they laughed. Coaxing the joy back into their hearts, beat by beat.

“We were, weren’t we?” she mused aloud, resting her cheek against his shoulder, “Heroes. Even if it was just for a day.”

He chuckled softly, planting a kiss on her head. “Maybe _you_ were,” he allowed, “Don’t you go accusing _us_ of doing anything _impor—”_ His eyes went wide, voice catching in his throat. He gaped for a moment, before his mouth snapped shut.

Just like that, the sadness and guilt came rolling back in. She looked up at him, face etched with concern.

She reached up to touch his face. “Oh… Oh, Georgie…”

A loud, insistent knock sounded from the front door.

They whipped around at the noise, the record scratching and falling silent.

“Who is that?” George called out, voice deep and commanding.

“Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Mr. Weasley,” a voice called back, “And rest assured, our knocking is merely a courtesy.”

George looked to his lover, eyes wide with fear. He held a hand up. “Stay here,” he whispered, “Just stay back, alright?”

She nodded anxiously, tugging the dressing gown tighter.

When he opened the door, four uniformed wizards shoved their way past him. The leader stepped forward, holding a crisp scroll of parchment. His was a commanding presence, though he stood nearly a full head shorter than George and Ophelia.

“Gawain Robards,” he introduced himself, “Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

She took a cautious step backwards. “I know who you are.”

“If you would, Madame Lestrange, slowly produce your wand with your left hand, and hold it aloft.”

She hesitated. “What’s this about?”

One of the other agents took initiative. “ _Accio wand!”_ It flew from the folds of her robe, and into his outstretched hand.

“Whoa!” George shouted, raising his arms and stepping in front of her, “What are you on about?”

“Stand aside, Mr. Weasley,” Robards commanded, nodding to his agents, “We’re not here for you, and I think we’d all like to keep it that way.”

They stepped around George, flanking Ophelia instantly. One of them producing a device not unlike a muzzle, unceremoniously strapping it to her face before she could protest. It was black and opaque, covering the entire lower half of her face. With a wave of his wand, it tightened, stifling her nose and mouth. A set of magically-produced manacles bound themselves to her wrists. She tried to cry out in protest, but found her voice completely inaudible beneath the muzzle. She could breathe, but she could not speak. It was as though the voice had been stolen from her throat. One of the Aurors lifted her hands, examining the now-red mark on her left forearm, before nodding to Robards.

“What the bloody hell is this?” George shouted.

Robards unfurled the parchment. “Madame Lestrange, is it true that you possess a _Fascinum Statimoris_? A nod will be sufficient.”

Her eyes widened with panic.

“What?” George exclaimed, “How did…?”

One of the other agents chimed in. “The memory charm you used on Faolan Sayre may have been sufficient to fool the Death Eaters, Madame Lestrange, but it was not strong enough to withstand Ministry interrogation.”

Robards nodded. “Hence, we cannot allow you to speak.”

Ophelia shook her head desperately, trying to no avail to shout.

“Let the record reflect that she denies the charge.” Robards returned to his parchment, continuing to read. “Ophelia Belladonna Yaxley-Lestrange, you are hereby placed under arrest by the Department of Magical Law enforcement, under the suspicion of numerous illegal activities. Including—”

George was becoming frantic. “ _What??”_ One of the Aurors took him by the arm, holding him back.

Robards powered through. “ _Including_ , but not limited to, the purchase and placement of a _Fascinum Statimoris,_ long-term conspiracy with Death Eaters, and, indeed, the Dark Lord himself, the repeated conjuring of the Dark Mark, the repeated use of the _Cruciatus_ curse, and the murders of Charity Burbage and Rodolphus Lestrange by way of the Killing Curse.” He closed the parchment, cold gaze meeting hers head on. “You will now be taken to Azkaban to await your hearing before the Wizengamot, the date of which has yet to be determined.”

Whatever fire had been so recently kindled in her heart instantly extinguished. _Azkaban_. And she couldn’t even take the quick way out.

George was shaking with rage. “This is all wrong! Does Kingsley know you’re doing this?”

“That is no concern of yours, Mr. Weasley,” Robards assured him, stepping over to take Ophelia by the arm.

She stamped her foot, and George looked to her in desperation. With bound hands, she lifted a corner of Fred’s dressing gown, giving him a pleading look.

“At least let her change, first!” he begged, “ _Please_! That belonged to my brother!”

The Aurors shared dubious glances, before Robards gave them a curt nod. With a wave of his wand, one of the Aurors unshackled her hands, forcing them out to her sides. Callously, they stripped the dressing gown away, tossing it to George, to leave her standing naked in the middle of the room. With a kind of tasteless scrutiny, they examined the brands carved into her neck and chest. He watched, helplessly, as she closed her eyes, sending a single tear cascading down her cheek.

“This is just fucking cruel!” he nearly shouted, trying to move towards her.

One of the Aurors caught him by the chest, shoving him backwards. “We won’t warn you again, Mr. Weasley,” he chided.

With a wave of his wand, Robards conjured a shapeless, grimy, black and white striped prison gown. The Aurors slipped it over her arms, buckling it behind her back.

“She is a _criminal_ , Mr. Weasley,” he said, patronizingly, “And criminals are not given the same rights as you or I.”

Once she was dressed again, her hands snapped back together in front of her. Again, she stamped her foot, and George met her gaze. The look in her eyes was beyond anything he’d ever seen before. Beyond fear, beyond remorse.

“Get off of me!” he shouted, shoving the Auror away. He strode over to her, taking her face in his hands.

She met his gaze, trying in vain to speak to him. Trying in vain to reach out and touch him.

“It’ll be alright, love,” he feverishly reassured, “I’ll get my dad, I’ll get Kingsley and McGonagall and Harry fucking Potter _himself_ , and—”

“Alright, Mr. Weasley,” Robards sighed disinterestedly, forcing him back with a wave of his wand, “That’s enough. You don’t want to find yourself facing an accessory charge.”

“They’re not gonna get away with this!” he shouted desperately, as the Aurors took her by the arms. But it was a meaningless cliché, and it did nothing to bolster his courage.

The look she gave him made his heart split in two.

“I _promise_ you, Ophelia!”

She nodded, desperately, blinking away tears.

“I’m gonna get the Order together, and we’ll put a stop to this! You—”

Before he could finish, they had Disapparated. And George was left completely alone, and stunned beyond words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Directed by M. Night Shyamalan lol
> 
> Honestly, though, think about what would've happened to Snape or Regulus if they'd lived. And then think about what it would've taken to exonerate them.


	4. The Despair Factor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What did I tell you? I promised I'd give you a story."

They materialized on the rocky shore of the island, and the first thing Ophelia noticed was the massive, triangular tower. It loomed before her like a mausoleum. The wind whipped around them, swirling through the grey clouds that never seemed to clear. Her skin stung as freezing belts of ocean spray lashed across the shore. It took a few moments for her to realize they were standing in a graveyard. Ill-tended and overcrowded. The tombstones were crudely carved rectangles, etched with only names and dates. They were clustered together in careless, disorganized patterns. It was with a sinking feeling that she took note of one tombstone in particular.

**Elladora Yaxley Lestrange**

**1957-1990**

Her mother. The woman she’d never known, never seen. Never spoken to.

But she did not have time to wonder or grieve. The Dementors were coming out to take her. There were two, floating a few feet above the ground. Their dark shrouds billowed out behind them as they approached; eerie shadows trailed by eerie shadows. The Aurors holding her arms suddenly released her, shoving towards them. She stumbled, gazing up at them in fear. And then they converged upon her, wordless voices rattling from their throats as some wispy, silver substance began flowing from her chest and into the obscure blackness of their hoods.

Everything in her body suddenly went cold. All she could see was Fred’s face, streaked with blood. Pale and frozen in that half-smile. His eyes wide and glassy, seeing nothing. She felt the pain all over again, as thought it had only just happened. The memory played on a loop, over and over and over. The explosion, the settling dust. George’s breathless screams. Rodolphus. And somewhere, deep inside, she could feel the Dementors relishing it. It was as though her particular sadness were a flavor they were accustomed to. They’d fed for decades on memories of her, pulled from her parents, her aunt and uncles. And now they had finally been gifted the real thing, served up to them on a platter by the Ministry of Magic.

Ophelia felt her legs give way. She would have screamed, if it weren’t for the muzzle. And with her hands still bound and unable to break her fall, she collided hard with the jagged stone of the island. A deep gouge sliced through her temple.

Suddenly, the manacles disappeared from around her wrists. But she was too drained to fight. Through no will of her own, she rose into the air, forced back onto her feet. The Dementors flanked her. One raised a necrotic finger towards the prison, and, mustering every ounce of strength she had left, she forced legs to move. _Anything_ to keep from re-living that memory again. The Aurors followed behind, at a discreet distance. To what end, she could not imagine.

When the iron doors closed behind her, and the sounds of the ocean were finally blocked out, she heard the prison for the first time. A chorus of weak, dying moans, punctuated by the occasional scream. The interior of the tower was hollow, and swarming with countless Dementors. The walls were lined with cells, spiraling up higher than she could see. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Occasionally, one of the Dementors would swoop in against the iron bars to feed from some unlucky occupant’s soul, putting a quick stop to their screams.

And the smell. Damp and salt and something sweetly rotting. It was the smell of slow death.

Silent and commanding, the Dementors led her up a staircase that wound steadily through the tower. Past hisses and jeers, and impotent, wandless curses.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_"_ I want to see what you think about at night! _Legilimens!”_

 _“Crucio!_ Scream for me, girl! _”_

One of the Aurors kicked at the bars of a nearby cell. “Shut your mouth, in there.”

She passed through a gauntlet of violent, disturbing, sexual remarks, and threats the likes of which she’d never heard before. Word began to travel up through the tower that Ophelia Lestrange had arrived, they’d caught Ophelia Lestrange. The prisoners called out for her father, excited faces pressed between the iron bars of their cells, turned upwards in anticipation.

They were nearing his cell. She could see his distinctively tattooed arms resting on the bars, long-nailed hands clasped in an oddly noble way.

“ _Ils vous ont finalement attrapé, ont-ils_?” he snarled as they approached, “And _regarde ça!_ They’ve stolen away Sayre’s little coward’s way out! Not so clever as you thought you were, eh?”

Robards cautioned, “Watch it, Lestrange!”

She could not bring herself to look at him. She wanted to run, to escape from the narrow breadth of his influence.

“Did you see _ta mère_ on your way in?” he taunted, “Hers is a heroes grave! _La tombe d'une heroine_!”

 _“Tell her, Rabastan_!” someone called out.

“Kill your own uncle!” he sneered, “My _brother_!”

“ _Traitor!”_

“You won’t last a week in here, girl,” he continued, “Not while you’re stuck watching your little red-headed boy die, over and over and over again!”

_Don’t look at him, don’t look, don’t—_

“I hope you know that, once I slip these bars again, the first thing I’ll do is kill the other one.”

They were level with his cell, then, and he spat through the bars at her, hitting her square in the face.

“Hey!” One of the Aurors sent him recoiling from the bars with a quick wave of his wand.

Ophelia stumbled backwards in silent revulsion, wiping the warm saliva away with desperate, shaking fingers. One of the Dementors rounded on Rabastan, the other on her. The Aurors stepped away, wands lowered. They fed for only a moment; just long enough to ensure they had both been subdued. When they withdrew, Rabastan slumped against the bars of his cell, and the Dementors forced her onwards.

“These walls are lined with loyalty, _ma fille_!” Rabastan called after her, “The ground outside is thick with it! _Quand tu meurs_ , I’ll see that they throw your body into the sea!”

She could not cry. It was the only thing she wanted to do, maybe the only thing she had control over anymore. But she would not let them see her cry.

When they reached her empty cell, one of the Dementors rolled the bars back with a wave of its black, skeletal hand. She stepped inside with no encouragement, and they sealed it behind her. There was no bed, just rough, bare stone. A barred window faced out towards the sea, obscured as it was by thick fog and sheets of rain.

“Hey!” Robards called out to her, “You’re not done, yet, get back over here.” He was brandishing a battered metal plaque towards her, bearing her name and (she presumed) her inmate number.

Dejectedly, she took it, and held it up in front of her chest. Another one of the Aurors approached with a camera.

“Give us one of those pretty, fanged smiles of yours, will you?” he taunted cruelly, before the camera popped brightly.

She was still blinking away the flashing lights when Robards yanked the plaque back through the bars. Before he left, he added a rueful, “I think we ought to rename this place _Château Lestrange_ , don’t you? Seems like every one of you people winds up here, in the end.”

She couldn’t even argue.

In Azkaban Prison, Ophelia found, the days and nights ran together in a seamless blend of horror. It was perpetually cold and dark, but never silent. It was as though the walls themselves were constantly screaming. She spent quite a bit of time curled in the corner of her cell with her arms wrapped tightly around her own body. Initially, she had tried to track the days based on when the Dementors fed her, but it seemed an entirely sporadic thing. Three would enter her cell at a time. One would remove her muzzle, the second would hold her at bay by taking a steady pull from her soul, and the third would pour the cold, flavorless meal down her throat. It was detached, it was cruel. And it was the only contact she had.

After a while, she was almost certain she could tell the great, hooded prison guards apart from one another. It seemed as though she was visited by the same three, most days. Occasionally, one would be different. But it was usually the same three. She began to think of them as _her_ Dementors.

Someone died, not long after she arrived. She saw the Dementors descend the staircase with his body, as though they were parading him around as a warning. When the other prisoners cheered and applauded, Ophelia realized, with a kind of twisted amusement, that it was actually more likely to _raise_ morale. It was possible for people to die, in this place. Someday, it would end.

She wished she could’ve watched them bury the man. But her barred window pointed in the wrong direction, and all she could see was the furious ocean.

Each day, it felt as though she’d permanently forgotten something that had, at one point, brought her joy. The sound of Fred’s voice was thinning in her memory, slipping through her fingers like smoke. When she thought of him, all she could see was his face, frozen into that half-smile, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling of the Great Hall. The feel of his cold fingers in hers. George’s breathless screams, filling her ears.

Ophelia could feel herself withering, inside and out. She was grateful not to be able to see her own face, but she watched in impotent horror as the bones in her wrists became more and more defined. Her ribs formed serrations beneath her tattooed skin, the pit of her sternum steadily hollowing. Her hands became like skeletal spiders, stiff and uncooperative.

One day, her Dementors came, she assumed, to feed her. But instead they dragged her out of her cell, and began to lead her down the winding staircase. The prisoners were in rare form as she ran the gauntlet, taunting and jeering with even more vigor than usual. She was grateful that Rabastan had been curled in the corner of his cell, sleeping fitfully, when they passed. Small mercies, she supposed.

When they reached the ground floor, the Dementors pushed her into another narrow cell, and closed the barred door behind her. When she gave them a wearily questioning look, one of them raised a necrotic finger towards the back of the cell. There was a splintering, wooden stool leaning against the wall. She cautiously took a seat, realizing that the wall housed a barred window, as of yet covered by a plate of rusted steel.

With the ear-splitting sound of metal-against-metal, the panel slid off to the side. And suddenly, Ophelia found herself face-to-face with George.

He cried out in relief, standing and reaching through the bars to touch her face. His skin was clean and warm against hers, hair still long. At once, she began shaking her head in protest. She’d have screamed, if she could.

“Shh,” he coaxed, trying to placate her. He was so warm. Shaking, but warm. His eyes flitted momentarily over her shoulder, and she saw a bolt of terror whisper across his face at the sight of her Dementors.

As relieved as she was to see him, it was as though every cell in her body was screaming in rejection of his presence in this horrible place. From what she could tell, he was in a room not unlike hers, annexed onto the outside of the prison tower. Dank, rough stone. Only his side had no barred cell door. Instead, a trio of Aurors stood guard, facing out towards the graveyard.

“Mistress mine,” he breathed, stroking his thumb down her cheek, “God, I’ve been so worried about you.”

She was afraid to return the gesture, afraid to stain him with the filth of this place. So instead, she just leaned gratefully into his touch, trying to cling to his warmth.

“Are you alright?” he asked desperately.

She shook her head, pressing her eyes shut. ‘ _Alright’_ was such a distant, alien concept. It felt as though she were dying, and the process was only speeding up.

“Listen,” he implored, “I haven’t got much time, here. They said we could send one person over to see you, and everyone decided it should be me.”

 _Everyone_? she wondered oddly.

“Alright, er, they gave me a whole load of things I needed to tell you, so…” He was trying to hold it together and be strong, but he was so flustered, so panicked. Seeing her in this horrible place, being here himself… It was too much. He was genuinely afraid he’d start to cry.

Finally, she reached through the bars, placing a cold hand on his chest. He clutched to it desperately, and it seemed to bring him some stillness.

“So, it’s, er… It’s June 12th, 1998,” he explained slowly, “You’ve been in Azkaban 28 days. Dad said you’d have probably lost track of time.”

She nodded in understanding, but inside, she was unbelievably confused. _28 days?_ _Could that really be all_?

“I guess the important thing is they’ve set your trial for tomorrow.”

She blinked up at him in shock.

“Dad, Percy, and Harry worked really hard to get them to try you first, before the rest of Death Eaters—” He closed his eyes, shaking his head bitterly. “Sorry, fuck. You know I didn’t mean that.”

She gave him a dismissive wave, trying to mask how much the remark had stung. He was clearly doing his best, under the circumstances. Besides, she could hardly fault him for speaking the truth.

“We were able to convince the Ministry that, since you’re the only one without any prior arrests, you need to go first. So, they’re gonna bring you down to London tomorrow morning. The trial is set to start at 9:00.”

She nodded in understanding, though he could see the apprehension behind her eyes.

“Let’s see, what else? Er… The Wizengamot has forced Kingsley to recuse himself from the proceedings. They say he’s too close to it, they won’t even let him testify. So, that means our old pal Gawain Robards is going to run the show.”

The remark seemed to sap her of hope.

“I know,” he commiserated, “It’s complete rubbish.”

Her head tipped forward against the bars, and to her great relief, he returned the gesture. Their foreheads rested gently against one another, her hand still on his chest, his hand still on her cheek.

“Dad told me about Professor Burbage.”

Ophelia blinked hard.

“I… I can’t imagine what she went through. What _you_ did. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She gave him a stunned, pleading look.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. He ran his thumb along her top of her scar, cresting out from beneath her gag.

“It was the Malfoys who sold you out,” he revealed in a conspiratorial whisper, “The Aurors caught up with them first, of course, and they named you right away to save their own skins.”

She nodded, wholly unsurprised.

“Hey,” he implored, taking her face in his hands, “We’re gonna get through this, alright? Harry and McGonagall are going to testify on your behalf tomorrow, along with me and dad.”

She felt her eyes welling up with tears, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.

“Can you think of anyone else who we can call on?” he asked, “Anyone at all?”

It occurred to her in a flash of brilliance, and she nodded frantically.

“Who? Damn, how are we meant to—Hey!” he called back to the Aurors, “Can’t you take this blasted thing off her, for five seconds?”

Their response was an unyielding, “No.”

“For five seconds!” he begged, “She just has to tell me a name! Doesn’t she have any rights? Come _on_!”

She tapped him on the shoulder, and he whipped back around to face her. She pulled his arm through the bars, spread his palm open, and began tracing big, capital letters with her finger.

“Oh, brilliant!” He repeated them out loud. “O… L… L… I… V… Ollivander!”

She nodded intensely.

He smacked a palm on his forehead. “Oh, for fucks sake, of course. Why didn’t we think of that?”

She shrugged, wondering the same thing.

“Right,” he nodded, “Ollivander. We’ll find him. That’s the first thing I’ll do, as soon as I get back.”

George jumped when a hand suddenly clapped on his shoulder. It was the Aurors.

“Alright, Mr. Weasley, your time is up.”

“What?” He tried to shrug them away. “No, it isn’t.”

 _Don’t argue_ , she silently begged, _don’t fight them, just do what they say_.

When they tried to pull him away from the window by force, he started to get wound up. He gripped her hand tightly, shouting and trying to shove the Aurors away from him. Her shoulder was pressed hard against the bars as he struggled.

She could sense what was about to happen before it happened. She heard the door to the cell swing open, felt the chill creeping up behind her. But she was unable to warn him. The Dementors descended upon the scene, swirling figures of concentrated blackness. One swooped down on Ophelia, pulling a steady stream of silver memory from her chest with a rattling inhale.

( _Freddie’s laugh was cut short by the explosion.)_

George froze, paralyzed with fear, and entirely helpless. He watched in horrified silence as they punished his lover. He gripped her hand tighter, panic rising as he felt her body begin to thrash. When it stopped, she slumped against the bars, limp and defeated.

“Ophelia?” he whimpered, shaking her hand lightly, “Love?”

She was only distantly aware of what was happening. For a moment, she could swear it was Fred, reaching through the bars for her.

“W-what did you do that for?” George demanded shakily, looking up at the Dementor, “It was me, causing trouble, not her!”

_Oh, no, love. Don’t do that._

With more agility than he’d been prepared for, the Dementor suddenly thrust its skeletal arm through the bars, and wrapped its necrotic fingers around his wrist.

George felt as though he’d jumped into a frozen lake. His mouth and eyes popped open, breath catching in his throat. His chest was so tight he couldn’t make a sound. His fingers opened reflexively, Ophelia’s hand slipping listlessly from his grip to hang in the window. Satisfied, the Dementor released its hold on him. He exhaled sharply, feeling a single, icy tear cut a track down his cheek. He clutched his wrist to his chest, as the Aurors stepped back up to take him by the shoulders.

“O—Ophelia,” he murmured, as they began to drag him backwards.

The Dementors levitated her into a standing position, but her head was rolling limply, side-to-side. Like a ragdoll, they floated her towards the door to the cell.

“Ophelia?” he called out again.

She did not respond. His mind was running sluggishly, like it was coated in a layer of frost. And before he could think of what to do, the steel plate over the window screeched closed again, and she was gone.


	5. M'aidez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the questions they'll ask.  
> Were we raised this way?  
> Such a promising past.  
> M'aidez!

The following morning, Ophelia was roused from fitful sleep by the Dementors. They led her down the spiraling stairs, through the gauntlet of prisoners. They seemed to be performing some sort of pagan rite to see her off, stomping their feet rhythmically while they hummed a static tone. The entire tower pulsed and writhed, voices echoing off the cold, stone walls. It reminded her of the night she got her Dark Mark.

Her father was leaning against the bars of his cell when they went by. “ _Qu'est-ce qui serait plus amusant?”_ he mused aloud, “If Robards sent you right back here to decay with the rest of us, or if he tossed you out into the world to die hated and alone?”

She made every effort to ignore him, but made the fatal mistake of meeting his gaze for a split second as they passed.

He smiled ravenously, baring his fang-like teeth. “Do you really think that little blood-traitor boy will want a life with _you,_ after all you’ve done?”

The remark wormed its way into her brain, and she was hit by a wave of nausea. For a moment, she believed him entirely. She knew she’d step into that courtroom, and George would be somewhere far away, forgetting about her. But she knew better than to react to it. She couldn’t afford to feed the Dementors this morning, not with what she was about to do. So, she turned away, kept walking. A few nearby prisoners jeered at her for it, calling her a coward.

The Dementors marched her out onto the beach (if you could call it that), where a quintet of black-robed Aurors were waiting to receive her. They had their wands drawn. For what reason, she couldn’t possibly imagine. She had neither the strength nor the ability to try anything stupid. Once she got within about ten feet of them, the manacles re-appeared around her wrists.

“Madame Lestrange,” one of them acknowledged. He almost had to shout, over the deafening crash of the waves. “We’re here to escort you to the Ministry of Magic, where you will be tried by the Wizengamot. Do you understand what’s going to happen, this morning?”

She nodded, hair whipping around distractingly in the wind.

Two of the Aurors flanked her, taking her roughly by the upper arms. And, without another word, they Disapparated.

They reappeared inside the lowest level of the Ministry. It was a circular room not unlike a dungeon, dimly lit by fading, sallow candles. In the center of the room there stood a rusted cage; roughly two meters in height, and a meter in diameter. The bars were peppered with inconsistently-placed spikes, all pointed inward. She realized that they were likely right below the Wizengamot chamber. She could hear the muffled chatter from up above.

The Aurors stepped her up to the cage, shoving her inside with no ceremony. Once the door was closed and locked behind her, they removed the manacles. She tested one of the spikes with her palm, only to find that it burned terribly on contact.

“Ooh, fast learner,” one of the Aurors remarked, a hint of cruel delight in his voice.

She looked down at her hand, to see a small, black mark. _What if I lose consciousness, and fall into the spikes?_ she fretted briefly. _Will they pull me out, or just let me die?_

“We’ve got three minutes,” another one of them announced, glancing at his pocket watch, “Stay sharp, boys.”

Ophelia knew that she should be afraid. Her heart, she realized, was pounding in her chest. But there was no emotion to it. No fear, no anxiety. Nothing. She scanned the room to find that, curiously enough, it had no doors. Then her eyes fell to a set of clothes, hanging from a rusted hook on the wall. Her clothes. Her regal, beautiful clothes.

She waved her hand to get her captors’ attention, pointing to them desperately.

“Oh, yeah,” one of them acknowledged, following her gaze, “Arthur Weasley’s boy brought those for you.”

She opened her palm expectantly.

The Auror scoffed. “Yeah, sure. You want a cup of tea while I’m at it? I know, let me go get your wand for you, and you can paint your face.”

She rolled her eyes, abandoning the idea. There was, at least, some comfort to be found in having a guard she could communicate with. Anything was better than the Dementors.

From up above, there came three, loud raps, and the crowd fell silent.

“I will now call to order this hearing of the Wizengamot,” she heard Robards announce, “Bring out the accused.”

“That’s our cue,” the lead Auror said, “Let’s send ‘er up.”

Ophelia was startled when the ceiling above her suddenly irised open, casting her in a blinding shaft of light. She closed her eyes, covering her face with her hands. It had been weeks since she’d seen real light. Then, with the horrible clank and scrape of rusted metal, the cage began to rise. It was then that the fear suddenly took hold of her.

The silent crowd craned their necks, hungry for the first glimpse of her. And when she finally rose into view, the entire room seemed to gasp. She couldn’t open her eyes, not yet. But she could hear the murmurs rippling around her in endless circles. The rising cage finally ground to a halt, and Robards banged his gavel again, demanding silence.

Slowly, she lowered her hands from her eyes, and blinked them open. The view was dizzying. The cage was standing in a kind of sunken pit, with rows and rows of seats ascending high above her. Before her was the Wizengamot: a sea of plum-colored robes and angular, ceremonial hats. She recognized a few faces. Gawain Robards stood front and center, dressed in black. The Senior Undersecretary sat to his right. Her wand was perched delicately on her podium, emitting a Patronus in the shape of a preening hawk. Looking straight up, she took note of the fact that five or six Dementors were swirling overhead, held at bay by a massive, silver-white shield.

The Wizengamot was flanked, either side, by reporters from every corner of the Wizarding World. Rita Skeeter seemed to be leading the Daily Prophet’s contingent, sitting up front with her acid-green Quick Quotes Quill. It was already scratching through page after page in its tiny notebook. And then, extending all the way around behind her, was the packed gallery. The familiar faces were countless. Former classmates, Hogwarts professors. Friends of friends of friends. And every single one of them was gazing down at her in fear and disgust.

_Where’s George?_ she worried, frantically scanning the crowd. _My god, Rabastan was right. He’s not here, he didn’t come_.

“Ophelia!”

The press all but lost their minds. Flashbulbs popped like lightening, excited voices rising to a collective roar.

She whipped around in her cage, and there he was. Seated directly behind her, with a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the barrier. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, she could see the watch she’d given him tucked into his pocket. His parents were with him, along with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, McGonagall, Neville, Luna and Xenophilius, Bill and Fleur, and yes, even Mundungus Fletcher had come out to see her. Oddly enough, it did not make her feel strong, to see them there. Instead, it filled her with humiliation. George was the only one she wanted. But he was there, right in the middle, his eyes wide and glassy as he met her gaze.

“We’re all with you, love!” he called out to her.

Robards banged his gavel, and the room fell silent once more. “You get _one_ of those, Mr. Weasley,” he heeded, “If I have to tell you again, you’ll be leaving this courtroom in manacles of your own.”

Arthur dragged his son back from the barrier, whispering something in his ear.

“Madame Lestrange,” Robards began.

She whipped around to face him.

“Let me begin by saying that you pose something of a conundrum for this court. This is the first time that the bearer of a _Fascinum Statimoris_ has stood trial before the Wizengamot, for reasons that I would imagine are obvious.” His lips curled back into a subtle sneer. “For this to be a fair hearing, you must be allowed to speak. What guarantee can you give that I will believe?”

Without hesitation, she thrust a hand between the bars of the cage, pointing directly at George. She would live, for George. The crowd gasped. Flashbulbs popped. She met Robards’ gaze head-on, unwavering.

_I have stared into the eyes of the Dark Lord and lied, Gawain,_ she though. _You’re no threat to me._

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. He seemed to be sizing her up, trying to make some sort of measure of her. And then, with a silent wave of his wand, he removed the muzzle from her face.

It took her completely by surprise. She took a massive, ragged inhale, massaging at her throat. The cameras were blinding, and she held her hand up in front of her face as she composed herself, flexing her jaw, humming quietly.

“Don’t make me regret that, Madame Lestrange.”

She briefly considered using the charm, just to spite him. What a deliciously petty and poetic way to end this saga. It would cause such beautiful chaos, just think of the headlines. But it was only a fleeting notion. After a moment, she straightened, drawing herself up to her full height. She tossed her hair back in a characteristically regal gesture, looked Robards directly in the eye, and spoke for the first time in 29 days.

“I had that placed in case Voldemort ever found out I was spying on him. That perhaps the secrets of my friends would die with me.” Her voice was hoarse from disuse, popping and crackling with each vowel sound. But she held her head high, fighting through it. “As we’re on the same side, Robards, I don’t imagine you have any intention of murdering Harry Potter. So, I don’t think it’ll be necessary to kill myself, today.”

Behind her, George gave a very audible, “ _Hah_!”

Robards paid them no mind, instead turning to the Senior Undersecretary. “Let’s begin.”

She rattled off the accusations in a dizzying list. “The charges are as follows: the purchase and placement of a _Fascinum Statimoris_ from the establishment formerly known as Sayre’s Crimson Door _._ Placement and public display of the Dark Mark on your left arm. Long-term conspiracy with convicted Death Eaters. Long-term conspiracy with the Dark Lord Voldemort. Unlawful detention and torture of Charity Burbage. Repeated conjuring of the Dark Mark. Repeated use of the _Cruciatus_ curse. Conspiracy to murder Albus Dumbledore. And, finally, the murders of Charity Burbage and Rodolphus Lestrange by way of the Killing Curse.”

The room rang with tense silence, all eyes on her. “Well,” she remarked, “When you say it all in a row, like that…”

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

She looked up at Robards, a resolute expression on her face. “I was a spy. I did what I had to do to win this war for the right side, and here we are. Victorious.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “That seems rather convenient for you, doesn’t it?”

The statement baffled her. “I don’t really see anything convenient about this.”

He scowled. “Let’s begin.”

One by one, the witnesses stepped up to the podium opposite Robards, and delivered their testimony. Harry went first, of course, and Robards knew better than to question him. He simply let him speak.

Harry talked about his early impressions of her, prior to her friendship with Fred and George. That first Christmas, when they’d brought her into the Gryffindor common room. He talked about the summer she’d gotten her Dark Mark, and how she began reporting to Dumbledore, Kingsley, Sirius, Remus, Snape, and Moody. (That became a sticking point for Robards, since none of those men could speak for themselves.) He talked about how she’d backed Dumbledore’s Army and trained them in tradecraft, and how she’d kept Umbridge off their backs. He talked about Fred’s stunt, the day the twins left Hogwarts, and the way she’d so gracefully handled the tense, vital minutes leading up to the battle in the Department of Mysteries.

Unfortunately, that thread of conversation did little more than remind Ophelia that Sirius had only been the first of many to die in her place.

And then came the real war. The night Dumbledore had died, the Battle Over Little Whinging. The loss of George’s ear. Tottenham Court Road. The sword she’d retrieved from her vault. The way she and Dobby had saved them all from Malfoy Manor; an event that he considered the keystone of the entire victory.

It was then that Ophelia learned that Dobby’s was yet another life sacrificed in her place.

And then the Battle. Her face. Fred. Rodolphus, whose death he had witnessed firsthand. The way she’d stepped up to shout at Draco and Voldemort, the way she’d tried to curse the Dark Lord himself, in full view of hundreds. Unfortunately, that became yet another sticking point. Harry’s eyes were closed, then. He didn’t _see_ anything.

McGonagall testified to the number of times she’d had to tell the defendant off for skiving off class with the Weasley twins, and how strange she’d found it. How it marked the beginning of her suspicion that there may be more to Ophelia Lestrange than the world expected. She testified as to her actions on the night of May 2nd, and the morning of May 3rd. How Ophelia had thrown herself between her and Snape, shielding her as only she could. How, in the end, she realized that Ophelia had never stopped sneaking about with the Weasley twins. She’d just gotten better at it.

Neville went next, and that seemed to be the turning point, in the minds of the gallery members. No one could argue with a Longbottom roaring and shouting in defense of a Lestrange. He talked about how, like them, he had been afraid of her, at first. Because of her name. Because of her face and her House, and her father’s eyes. But he looked past his prejudice and what he saw then was a good person. A self-sacrificing hero, singularly focused on _good_ , no matter the cost. He implored the courts to do the same. And, unlike Harry, Neville’s eyes were wide open when she cursed Voldemort.

Then came Arthur, respected Ministry official, and he helped to fill in some of the gaps. How his sons had trusted Ophelia Lestrange from day one, how she’d worried only for their safety and survival. He talked about the night she arrived to his home, sobbing and frightened; the Dark Mark freshly burned into her arm. 16 years old, and thrust into the life of a Death Eater. A child soldier, willing bartered to Lord Voldemort by her own father.

He talked about her tireless efforts to provide them with information, year after year, and how it wore on her. When it came time to address the death of his son, Arthur wept. And then he did something that no one, not even Ophelia had expected: he thanked her.

“It’s a cruel and barbaric thing,” he’d said, “The act of revenge. It’s not something I’d given much thought to, prior to the murder of my son. I suppose I’d lived a privileged life, in that way. But Ophelia’s actions on that battlefield brought a swifter, more certain justice to my son’s killer than any court could. This court included. For that, and so much more, I am in her debt.”

And then it was time for George to take the stand. He moved with a kind of deliberate slowness, entirely resolute. In his hands, he held a long piece of parchment, upon which he seemed to have written a statement for himself.

“Hey, love,” he began, looking down at Ophelia, “Hang in there for a few more minutes, yeah? It’ll be over, soon.”

Her reply was little more than a whimper. “Alright.”

“Mr. Weasley,” Robards cautioned.

George cleared his throat, and lifted his parchment. “My acquaintance with Ophelia Lestrange began on the night of August 18th, 1994, during the terrorist attack on the Quidditch World Cup. Prior to that night, I am ashamed to say that… My brother and I bullied her. She was a Slytherin, and we were Gryffindor. We hated her because of her name and her house, and because of the crimes her parents had committed. We were children, but that was no excuse. And when Death Eaters attacked the campsite at the World Cup, Ophelia saved out lives. And she begged me to tell my father that Lucius Malfoy was the one leading the attack. I did, and we struck up a friendship.”

“When did the romantic relationship begin?” Robards asked pointedly. It would seem that this was the testimony he’d been waiting for. He’d heard the stories about her, he’d heard the measured, corroborated accounts of her good deeds, and all the justifications for her more questionable actions. And now he was all too eager to tear into the more lascivious details of this tale.

“Christmas of that year,” George answered, “I was 16, and she was 15. Children.”

“And at what point did your brother begin taking part?”

The gallery erupted with shouts, some of protest, some of disgust.

“Listen here, Gawain,” the Senior Undersecretary argued, “The witness’ personal life is not on trial!”

“But the personal life of the defendant, inextricably linked as it is to her acts of espionage, _is_ on trial!” he argued, banging his gavel, “Answer the question!”

George stammered, glancing down at Ophelia. Color was beginning to rise to his cheeks.

“Don’t look at her, you look at me!”

“A-a few months later,” he blurted, “But listen, you don’t—”

“And we are to believe that it was on that basis that Madame Lestrange, then 15 years old, decided to betray her family?”

“Well—” George struggled, “She was 16, by then.”

More gasps from the gallery, more flashbulbs and murmurs of disapproval. Mrs. Weasley brought a hand to her forehead, looking rather conflicted.

“Listen!” George shouted, “You’re missing the point, here! We were friends, and she loved us, and we loved her, and she wanted to keep us safe! It’s not exactly a revelation that her parents were evil, or that You-Know-Who was evil! Give her some damn credit!”

“And you were aware, then, that your romantic relationship was central to her deception of Lord Voldemort?”

George exhaled a dry laugh. “Oh, so _now_ you admit she was deceiving him?”

“George,” his father scolded, shaking his head bitterly.

“Yeah, we figured!” George answered, “We weren’t stupid! But we trusted her!”

“Why? Why trust her?”

George frowned. “Because the Malfoys beat her bloody for seeing us, and that didn’t do a damn thing to stop her. Because we saw the look on her face, the night she climbed in our bedroom window and showed us the Dark Mark on her arm.”

“I didn’t show it to you,” Ophelia mumbled.

“What was that?” Robards asked pointedly.

“I didn’t show it to them,” she repeated, louder, “I wouldn’t. I made them wake their parents, first.”

The courtroom was still for a moment, and then Robards spoke again. “What about the night of May 2nd?”

“Hang on, I’m not there, yet!” George snapped, “I’ve got years of stories!”

“ _May 2 nd_.”

George huffed angrily, looking back down at his parchment. He had to skip over a majority of his statement, scanning through as quickly as he could.

“The events that took place on May 2nd and 3rd of this year marked the single greatest triumph in the history of Wizardkind. But for many, myself and Ophelia included, it also marks the single greatest tragedy we will ever experience.” He had to pause to blink away tears before he could continue. “In the heat of battle, Rodolphus Lestrange cast a curse at his niece with lethal intent. Owing to the protective spells that he himself had placed upon her, she survived the attack. At that point, my brother sent her to relative safety with me, and while we were assessing her wound, he… Rodolphus Lestrange killed my brother.”

“And?” Robards pushed.

George scowled. “And then Ophelia killed Rodolphus.”

After a long beat, Robards announced, “Thank you, Mr. Weasley, you may step down.”

“Hang on, I’ll do no such bloody thing!”

“You will, or you’ll be removed from this courtroom.”

“Are you gonna charge her with murder for killing a man on the battlefield?” George shouted, “Loads of us killed people, that day! It was war! If she hadn’t done it, I would’ve!”

“But only the Death Eaters cast Unforgivable Curses!”

“Are you completely stupid? She’d just seen the love of her life murdered! You don’t know what that feels like!”

“ _One_ of the loves of her life,” Robards corrected.

George flew into a rage, looking very much like he intended to jump over the barrier and charge the entire Wizengamot. “ _You shut your goddamn mouth, Robards, you don’t have any idea what the hell you’re talking about_!” Bill and Arthur leapt up, attempting to drag him back to his seat. A few of the Aurors standing guard in the wings drew their wands on George, and began shouting a jumble of orders and threats. All around them, chaos was building in the gallery. The Wizengamot was whispering behind their hands to one another, a few imploring with the Senior Undersecretary to intervene. Robards banged his gavel, but no one paid any attention.

“How the hell did they let a wanker like you become an Auror, anyway?” George demanded, still trying to fight his way free of Arthur and Bill, “Honestly! I thought there was some kind of standard to keep idiots like you away from the job!”

Ophelia watched the proceedings with a kind of numb smile, immensely proud of this man she loved so much. It was rather unlike him, this sort of passionate display. It was, however, very much like Fred.

“And where the hell is Kingsley?” George shouted, “I hope he’s studying up for your trial, you jumped-up little git! You’re the only criminal I see, in here!”

Robards caught sight of Ophelia’s expression and scowled. “You think this is funny, do you?”

She cast him a placid look. “I’ve been in Azkaban for a month. I don’t think I’ll ever know what ‘ _funny’_ means ever again.”

He grimaced, turning back to the gallery. “Is there any more testimony, or can we conclude this trial?”

Ophelia looked up to George in desperation. _Where in the world is Ollivander?_ George gaped, shook his head. “ _I don’t know_ ,” he mouthed.

“Very well.” With that, Robards turned to confer with the Wizengamot. The whispering went on for minutes, papers were passed around and referenced. All they could do was wait.

Ophelia looked to George. He was still red-faced and furious, but now clamped tightly between Bill and Arthur to prevent any further antics.

Robards announced, “As it stands, now, the Wizengamot would be content to sentence Madame Lestrange to time served, on the charges of conspiracy, placement of a _Fascinum Statimoris_ , display and casting of a Dark Mark, and murder of the convicted Death Eater Rodolphus Lestrange. It is clear that those actions, evil though they were, were necessary in order to earn and maintain the trust of the Dark Lord Voldemort.”

Ophelia breathed a tentative sigh of relief, glancing back at George once more. He gave her a kind of encouraging nod.

“But what this court cannot overlook is the cold-blooded detention, torture and murder of Charity Burbage.”

_FUCK_.

“I notice that both Madame Lestrange and her collection of defenders have been relatively quiet, as far as that topic is concerned,” he said, not without a kind of haughty condescension in his voice. “Have you anything to say in your defense?”

Ophelia stammered for a moment, eyes flitting here and there as though the answer were written somewhere on the walls. As though it would be found in one of the scowling faces of the Wizengamot.

“Well?”

“I-I did what I had to do,” she mumbled, “You’d have done the same.”

Robards sighed. “I seriously doubt that.” He picked up that damned gavel again. “Very well. Ophelia Lestrange, for the murder of Charity Burbage, you are hereby remanded to—”

And then a voice sounded from the edge of the room. “You put that stupid thing down, Gawain, right this instant!”

All eyes turned in shock to see Garrick Ollivander elbowing his way past the Aurors guarding the door. They seemed stunned by this intrusion, and afraid to lay their hands on this very respected, very old, very frail man. One of the Aurors drew his wand, stepping in front of Ollivander. He swatted the man’s hand away with no fear.

“Don’t you point that thing at me, Dorian Savage, I _made_ that wand!”

The gallery broke into frantic murmurs, camera shutters clicking and flashbulbs popping like lightning. He strode right to the center of the room to stand beside Ophelia. Resolute, he reached through the bars of her cage and took her by the hand.

“You let this girl go at once,” he commanded.

“Mr. Ollivander, you are out of line,” Robards nearly shouted.

_“And you’re out of your depth!”_

George leapt to his feet and started clapping. Mr. Weasley snatched tiredly for his wrist and dragged him back into his seat.

“If you mean to throw her back in Azkaban,” he announced, “You may as well take me, too. It’ll save me the considerable effort of attacking a member of the Wizengamot, for the honor.” At that, Ollivander raised his wand.

The Wizengamot and the Aurors reacted seamlessly, all of them taking a kind of preemptive lunge for him. But he did not strike, did not attack. He waved his wand overhead, beckoning a massive Pensive from its storage shelf, high-above.

“This is not a Pensive trial,” Robards snapped, “You put that back at once! Memories curated and altered by a skilled Occlumens are as inconsequential to these proceedings as her word!”

“She may be a skilled Occlumens,” Ollivander said, setting the Pensive to float before him, “But I am not. And I was there, the same as she.”

The gallery went wild. Ollivander raised his wand to his temple, withdrawing a strand of silver-white memory and tapping it down into the basin. Robards raised his gavel to put a stop to it, but the Senior Undersecretary held up a hand.

“No,” she urged, “No, Gawain. I want to see.”

Ollivander censored nothing for them. What immediately ensued was nothing short of hellish. Images of Charity Burbage suddenly sprang to life overhead, projected up by the courtroom Pensive. Her body tense and seizing as she screamed and wailed, bloodshot eyes bulging from her sockets. Ollivander desperately begging that they take him, instead, before being kicked aside. Charity’s hands could be seen clawing at the air as she shrieked, all the while accompanied by Voldemort’s laughter. Bellatrix’s laughter. Rabastan’s, Rodolphus’. The images overlapped and bled together into a seamless stream of horror. And then the memories dissolved and re-formed, and Ophelia saw herself, kneeling in the Malfoy’s dungeon.

_“Kill me,” Charity suddenly blurted._

_“Charity,” Ollivander scolded._

_“Kill me,” she repeated, “Kill me, just kill me, I can’t do this for one more moment, I just want to die!”_

_“Charity!”_

It was two days after Dumbledore’s death. Two days after she’d been gifted her Lestrange brands.

_“Professor please,” Ophelia begged, shaking hands hovering over the frantic woman, “Please, they’ll hear!”_

_At that, she wailed, “Have you no mercy at all? If you won’t kill me, then what good are you?”_

_Ophelia’s eyes flitted upwards, where encroaching footsteps could be heard._

_Ollivander was begging with her, “Charity, be quiet!”_

_“Please, Professor, I—”_

_With wild eyes, Charity lunged for Ophelia. “KILL ME!”_

_Ophelia stumbled backwards, breathless and terrified, and sprinted from the dungeon. The barred door closed with a bone-rattling clang._

“HAVE YOU NO MERCY AT ALL?”

_“Listen to me, I’m here to help you! I promise!” Ophelia implored, though it was entirely inaudible beneath Charity’s continued screams, “I’ll bring you food soon, Professor! Just hold on a little longer!”_

_At that, Ollivander leapt to his feet and sprinted for the door. With the eyes of a madman, he thrust his arm between the bars and took a handful of Ophelia’s dress._

_“If you’re mean to help us,” he panted raggedly, “Then help us.”_

_“I will!” she impressed, “I will, I—”_

_“Listen to me,” he interrupted in a shrill whisper, glancing back at his wailing cellmate, “He needs me alive, do you understand?_ Me _, not her!”_

_Ophelia wrenched from his grip, stumbling back in a daze._

_The words were dark and emphatic as he implored, “She won’t last. Not the way they’re torturing her.”_

_Wide-eyed, Ophelia nodded._

_“Put a stop to it,” he begged, “For her sake.”_

_“Keep my secret,” she parried, beginning to retreat._

_“I will.”_

And then it was back to torture. Blood splatter, laughter. The wet, dense packing sounds of fists against flesh. Laughter. Only now, Charity was not begging for mercy. She was begging for death.

“Enough!” the Senior Undersecretary shouted, eyes pressed shut in desperation, “Enough, enough! I can’t take any more of this!”

At her command, Ollivander stopped. His point had been made.

“Horrible, just…” the Senior Undersecretary was murmuring, shaking her head in a kind of surreal attempt at denial, “Horrible, horrible…”

“Yes,” Ophelia acknowledged, “Imagine being Charity Burbage.

Behind her, George’s audibly whispered, “Oh, _shit_!”

Ophelia was gaining momentum. “It’s just that begging, ‘ _oh, no, it’s horrible, make it stop,’_ did her no good at all! The tortures you’d just seen lasted for nearly a year, do you understand that? Day in and day out, never stopping! And Voldemort was never, ever _going_ to stop!”

People began trying to shout over her, Robards included, but she powered through.

“He was going to keep doing that until she died, because he thought it was _fun_!”

“ _That_ is the enemy we were faced with!” Ollivander corroborated, clutching tightly at her hand, “You’ve all heard stories on the radio, read Miss Skeeter’s words in the paper, but none of you were there! None of you saw it like we did! And now, after only a few scattered moments of it, you’re begging for me to stop. I, for once, felt that Charity deserved better.”

Robards stammered, “You were not responsible for the—”

“I’m was just as complicit in it as she! You saw it!”

“You were a prisoner!”

“And so was she,” Ollivander snapped. “Ophelia Lestrange was born a prisoner.”

The gallery rippled with frantic murmurs. Robards banged his gavel, demanding quiet. “It doesn’t matter! The casting of an Unforgivable Curse is, by its very definition, _unforgivable_! Our laws are absolute.”

Ollivander roared, “War does not abide by your absolutes! Horror and tragedy do not abide by your absolutes! Forgive her this crime,” he commanded, “Because Charity Burbage surely would. Alas, Charity Burbage does not have the power to grant this woman her freedom.”

Behind her, George shouted, “Yeah! That’s on you!”

The gallery erupted into chaos. And then, through the mixed shouts and camera shutters, she heard the voices of her friends.

“Forgive her!” Fleur.

“Forgive her!” Harry.

“FORGIVE HER!”

Robards was banging his gavel, a fruitless attempt to quell the rising chaos.

“ _FORGIVE HER_!”

It rose like a chant from behind her, led by George. The stomping of fists and feet. Fierce and wild, as rabidly protective of her as she’d been of all of them. The Wizengamot was frantic, watching as what little control they had slipped away entirely.

_“Forgive her! Forgive her! Forgive her!”_

“She was a prisoner!” Ollivander cried. At that, the room finally stilled. “And if you can’t understand that, it shows me that you’ve no understanding at all of the war we’ve just had!”

“Mr. Ollivander, you are out of line! You cannot—"

“ _And_ ,” he interrupted, “A man who does not understand the war has no right to judge its heroes!”

Robards’ face had gone completely red, his lips pressed together into a thin line. He looked as though he were either about to scream, or draw his wand and strike her dead himself.

No one spoke, no one breathed. No camera shutters could be heard, no scratching quills. All eyes were on Ollivander, this man from whom all the magic in their world sprang.

“Gawain,” the Senior Undersecretary nudged. “End this.”

After a long, tense silence, he spoke. “Ophelia Belladonna Yaxley-Lestrange, you are hereby cleared of all charges. And… You are free to go.”

What happened next was a blur. The courtroom erupted into a deafening cacophony of voices. She could hear someone scream, either Ginny or Fleur. Reporters were suddenly clamoring around wildly, the Aurors and members of the Wizengamot trying to hold them back. George broke free from the crowd. He leapt over the barrier and rushed the dais, screaming for them to let her out.

“ _Give me her wand!”_ he was demanding, hand outstretched towards Robards, “ _Give me her fucking wand! Right now! Right now! RIGHT NOW!”_

Mr. Weasley followed closely behind, trying to talk some sense into his son. Robards was banging his gavel, demanding calm, but no one listened. In the scramble and panic, she lost track of Ollivander. One of the Aurors unlocked the cage, and she stumbled out into her lover’s arms. He tore his jacket off, throwing it around her shoulders.

He took her face in his hands. “Look at me!” he shouted over the noise, “We’re gonna get you out of here, can you walk?”

She nodded weakly, fretful fingers gripping at his shoulders.

“You can _do_ this, Ophelia! We’re almost home!” He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. She could feel him shaking. The reporters all but lost their minds, shoving cameras into their faces, blinding them with light and noise.

“Get the hell out of my way!” George commanded. He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, and began to shove his way through the crowd.

Flashbulbs continued to pop like so much lightening. Members of the press were screaming questions, trying to push past the phalanx of Aurors. Ophelia stumbled along as best she could, feeling her bare feet getting trampled by the ravenous crush of people. She put her head down, burying her face into George’s chest.

She felt him trying to Apparate, but it was like the air around them was completely solid.

“Dad, where do we go?” he called back over his shoulder.

Mr. Weasley shouted something indistinct, but George seemed to understand.

Ophelia clapped a hand over her ear, and focused on keeping her feet moving beneath her.

“ _Ophelia, what do you have to say to the Burbage family_?”

Just keep moving. Hold onto George, and don’t stop.

“ _Will you attend your father’s trial?”_

“ _Will you testify?”_

She stumbled, but George pulled her up again.

_“Mr. Weasley! Do you blame Madame Lestrange for your brother’s death? Do you feel she used you both as bait?”_

“ _Do you have anything to say about the Malfoys’ involvement in the war?”_

Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.

“ _George! How do you feel about what she did to Rodolphus Lestrange_?”

Don’t let anyone grab you.

“ _Lift the block, Gawain!”_

_“Let them Apparate out, for godssakes!”_

There was a loud CRACK, she could feel George’s arm try to twist away from her. She tightened her grip, and then everything went black. She felt herself being pressed very hard from all directions, being flattened and forced through the air, and then everything was silent. They were back at Number 93, standing beneath the bay window.

She was panting in his arms, eyes still pressed shut. The sudden stillness was jarring.

“Are you alright?” he asked desperately, taking her face in his hands, forcing her to look up at him.

Her response was no more than a whimper. She was still trying to come to terms with all that had just happened.

“Christ.” He pulled her into his shaking arms, pressing her face to his chest. “I knew they’d let you off. They never had a case to begin with.”

She tried to speak, but the words seemed stuck in her throat.

“Oh, hang on, before I forget—” George dug through his pocket for a moment, and then held her wand out to her.

Her tattooed fingers hovered tentatively above it. She looked up into his hazel eyes, which she could see were sunken with exhaustion, as if to ask him if he was sure.

“Take it,” he commanded, shoving it into her hand.

She had to blink back tears. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He pulled her back into another embrace, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “They had no right to take it from you in the first place.”

“You shouldn’t touch me so much,” she finally managed, “I’m covered in… Azkaban.” She cast a sad glance down at the grimy, shapeless, striped prison uniform she was still wearing.

“Have a bath,” he said gently, “I went to Sayre’s and got all of your things for you, while you were… While you were inside.”

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, you do too much for me.”

He shook his head, giving her another kiss. “Abject nonsense and fiddle-faddle. Go and have a bath. Do you want me to sit with you?”

“No,” she murmured, “I’ll be alright.”

Shedding the prison uniform brought no catharsis. No relief, no renewed sense of freedom or vindication. Nothing. She drew the bath by hand, leaving her wand on the bedside table. George had placed her dagger there, too, still on its thigh strap.

_That used to be Fred’s bedside table._

_Stop it._

She lowered herself into the scalding water, stifling a cry of pain. After so many weeks of cold stone and belts of ocean spray, it was an unwelcome shock. But she weathered the heat, determined to burn away the memory of Azkaban prison. For a long time, she just stared at the bright red mark on her left forearm. The only flash of color, in all of her brands. No longer did it move and writhe in her skin. Instead, it sat mercifully still, and eerily silent. A part of her still didn’t trust it.

There was a loud _crack_ from the sitting room, and she could hear Arthur’s voice.

“Where is she?”

“She’s in there,” George told him, “She’s alright.”

“That’s not how it was meant to go,” Arthur wearily relayed, “They would have taken her back down into the room below, and let us go in to retrieve her.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t wait that long,” George snapped.

“Ollivander was right, Robards had no business at all running that trial. He had no control over anything that happened in there.”

“Do you think they’ll try and declare a mistrial, then? Haul her back in?”

“No,” Mr. Weasley reassured him, “They won’t risk another fiasco like that. Could you imagine the rioting? No, he’ll retreat to lick his wounds, I think. But she’ll have to walk on eggshells for the rest of her life.”

George sighed. “I know.”

“One little slip is all it’ll take. If she’s ever so much as in the same _county_ as someone practicing Dark magic, George, they’ll—"

_“I know.”_

After a long pause, Arthur said, “She needs to go to St. Mungo’s.”

“Dad, you know she won’t agree to that. It’s gonna be years before we can get her to set foot inside another Ministry-run building.”

_You know me so well, my darling_ , Ophelia mused silently, thankful for his defense of her.

“George—”

“And the press will be all over us.”

Arthur had to concede to that. “Have you looked outside?”

After a beat, she heard George swear under his breath. “Christ, they’re all over the place.”

“Yes, and I imagine they will be for a while.”

After a time, Ophelia realized she had fallen asleep. She awoke with a start in the cold water of the bathtub. Not shivering, but frightened and confused. It took her a moment to gather her bearings, before she remembered where she was. There was no way of knowing how long she’d been asleep. Her neck ached from the odd position.

When she stepped into the bedroom, she found that George had laid out a dressing gown on the bed. It was one of her own, from Sayre’s. Pleated black silk, trimmed with delicate lace. Floor length. Wrapping it around her felt a little like going home.

No less weary, despite her odd, dreamless sleep, she sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them.

George knocked delicately on the door. “Love?”

She looked up at him, and in her eyes, he could see a kind of emptiness. He’d been afraid to startle her by entering too quickly, but realized in that moment that startling her would likely be an impossibility for a while. She was numb. Beaten down. He opened his mouth to ask her if she was alright, but paused. He could already hear it ringing false in the air. Of course, she wasn’t alright.

Instead, he asked, “How… How bad is it?”

“It’s bad.”

With a deep sigh, he sat down behind her, legs either side of her hips, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “But we’ll get through it, yeah?”

“We always do.” Even her voice seemed to have been deadened.

“Yeah,” he tried to reassure her, “We always do. Come here—”

He took her brush from the bedside table, one of the things he’d found at Sayre’s, and began to work it gently through her waist-length hair. He noticed, not without a gathering sadness, that more strands of silver had appeared.

_God_ , he realized, _she’s nineteen bloody years old_.

Gradually, her limbs began to loosen. She let her feet slip down to the floor, hands clasped in her lap. When he’d brushed out the resilient tangles, he set about weaving a single, thick braid through her hair, pulling it back from her face.

There was something _familiar_ about this, she slowly realized. It was an unnamable feeling, like a fog creeping up from the back of her mind. An empty space in a puzzle that she just couldn’t find the piece for. Sitting between George’s legs while he braided her hair. Familiar, but perhaps not quite right. She had the briefest recollection of warmth, but then it faded.

“You remember Christmas, the year we met?” he nudged.

She guessed thickly, “You… You braided my hair?”

“No.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, where the top of her spine tattoo was visible above her collar. “You braided mine. And Freddie’s. You remember?”

She furrowed her brow, wishing she could see his face. Maybe it would give her some kind of handle on the moment. But she didn’t want to turn and disrupt his careful work. It felt too good.

“At Hogwarts,” she murmured.

His legs tightened around her. “Mmmhmm.”

She screwed up her face, thinking hard. “By the… The hearth, in the Great Hall?”

“Right again,” he softly praised. “You remember it?”

It came rushing back to her, as though he’d unlocked some hidden room in the back of her mind.

_“Unbelievable. You can’t work up the nerve to ask her to the bloody dance, but you can walk right up and get her to spend the night with you in a sodding tunnel?”_

_“She wasn’t the one who spent the night in a tunnel.”_

_“Hey! Don’t talk like that!”_

There was warmth at her back, warmth in her arms. She could feel her fingers working through his hair. Hear his laugh. Hear Fred’s.

“ _You’re a good sport, Freddie. And you’d be an even_ better _sport if you’d let me do you next.”_

For a split second, she felt something strange and unfamiliar in her chest. Her heart beat faster, there was a kind of comfortable lightness trapped in her ribcage. And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone again.

Had it been… Happiness? Is that what happiness was? She was distressed to find that she couldn’t seem of remember ever having felt like that before. She didn’t know how to label it.

She breathed a shuddering sigh, finally turning to face her lover. “I thought the Dementors took that away from me.”

He placed a hand on her cheek, running his thumb over the scar that distorted the corner of her lips. “I reckon they did take it away,” he admitted, “And maybe we just put it back.”

She nodded, eyes traveling across his face. She knew she owed him. Conversation, reassurance, sex, _something_. But no amount of scalding water or gentle touches or sweet words could erase the lingering ennui of the Dementors. It was soaked into her very bones.

So, instead, she whispered a simple, earnest, “Thank you, Georgie.”

“Don’t mention it, love,” he reassured her, tying off the braid and slinging it over her shoulder. “Do you want to try and sleep?”

She nodded. “I think I should. I haven’t slept, I mean, _really_ slept, in… I don’t know. I can’t remember. It’s been a long time, I think.”

He understood. It broke his heart to imagine her, curled up in the corner of her freezing cell, but he understood. He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth, right on her scar.

“Sleep,” he commanded, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ll be right here.”

“Thank you, my love.” It felt like an appropriate moment to cry, but the tears just wouldn’t come. She couldn’t be happy, couldn’t be sad. She was just stuck in the middle. It would’ve frustrated her, if that were an emotion she was capable of feeling.

Defeated, she sank to the bed, laying on her side and pulling her knees to her chest. George tugged the blanket up over her, bending to press one more kiss to her temple. Within moments, she was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hell of a lot of fun with George's ACAB-themed courtroom disruptions. What a goddamn hero.


	6. Hidden Knives/ Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two shorter sections combined into one

“O?”

She stirred lightly, drawing the blanket tighter.

“Ophelia?”

She opened her eyes to see George peering in from the doorway. “What is it, my love?”

“There are…” he hesitated, “Er, we have guests.”

She sat up, instantly coursing with adrenaline. “Am I being arrested again?”

“No, no,” he waved her off, “It’s just that there’s a whole load of goblins in the sitting room, and they want to talk to you.”

She furrowed her brow. “You must be joking.”

He shook his head, chuckling lightly. “Honestly, I don’t think I could’ve come up with a story that good.”

She emerged from the bedroom, dressing gown wrapped demurely around her frame. There were _three_ goblins, not a “ _whole load_ ”. The Gringotts Head Goblin, and two she didn’t recognize. They sat side-by-side on the sofa, their legs dangling comically over the edge. Their expressions, however, were far from comical. But that was the nature of goblins.

“Madame Lestrange,” the Head Goblin greeted her as she lowered herself into her high-backed chair, “Let me begin by saying I’d like to extend my personal thanks to you, for what you did for Griphook.”

George stood beside her, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.

She nodded politely. “He was extremely brave. I still mourn his death.”

“He was a goblin,” he replied curtly, “And although he violated the sanctity of his vows by breaking into the bank, it was no fault of yours.”

“Er…” George interjected, the hint of an amused smile creeping across his face, “Can I get anyone any refreshments?”

“I’m alright, love,” Ophelia replied, squeezing his hand.

“Butterbeer, if you have it,” chirped one of the smaller goblins.

“Make that two!” agreed the other.

George nodded, clearing his throat to stave off laughter. “Alright. Two Butterbeers.”

He quickly scurried into the kitchen. Ophelia cast him a disapproving glare, tugging her gown a little tighter. He met her gaze, a little guiltily.

“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if you were _decent_ , Madame Lestrange,” the Head Goblin admonished.

She exhaled a mirthless chuckle. “That’s a laugh. No, never mind all that, Mister…?”

He gave her a subtle bow of the head. “Grinlor.”

“You needn’t worry about my decency in receiving guests, Mr. Grinlor,” she reassured him, “As you are most certainly aware, I was released from Azkaban this morning. It’s not as though I’m nobility.”

He gave her a wicked smile, exposing his sparse and pointed teeth. “Your Gringotts bank balance tells a different story, Madam.”

She almost laughed again. “I haven’t _got_ a bank balance.”

“On the contrary,” he corrected, producing a set of small, half-moon glasses from the breast pocket of his coat, setting them on his long, pointed nose. One of the smaller goblins handed him a crisp scroll of parchment, which he unfurled.

George returned with two unreasonably large mugs of Butterbeer, handing them to the eager goblins. The sight was outrageously comical. She was almost certain that he’d magically enlarged them, just for the sight gag. He grinned sheepishly as Ophelia gave him a subtle, admonishing glare. He took his place beside her once more, clearing his throat and composing himself.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grinlor,” she said, brow furrowed, “But I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“In light of recent… _Events_ , including the result of your trial this morning,” he explained, peering at her over the parchment, “It would seem that you, Madame Lestrange, are the sole remaining heiress to the contents of your family’s vault. You’ll find a list of assets here, along with an approximate valuation of liquidity.”

He extended the parchment out towards them.

She nodded towards the goblin. “Georgie, will you?”

Her lover took the parchment, examining it with widening eyes. “Oh my god.”

“I have to say,” she bristled, “I’m surprised to hear that, although not nearly as surprised as I am that you came here, personally, to tell me.”

“Ophelia…”

“Madame Lestrange,” the goblin smiled, almost patronizingly, “Your family’s vault is one of the most ancient, valuable, and well-guarded in all of Gringotts. As it’s now sole proprietor, you’re entitled to certain, shall we say… Extra attentions.”

“ _Ophelia_.”

“ _What_ , love?”

She looked up to see George, hand over his mouth as he stared at the parchment. With an overwhelmed shake of his head, he passed her the paper. The figures she saw written upon it were beyond anything she could’ve fathomed.

Saying it aloud was dizzying. “Four hundred and thirty million, eight hundred and ninety thousand, seven hundred and sixty galleons?”

The Head Goblin nodded. “That is correct, Madam Lestrange. And let me reiterate, that is only a rough estimate of your liquid assets. We appraise the artifacts, antiques, and jewelry to be worth somewhere in the range of an additional seven to ten million.”

“ _Galleons_?” George asked in redundant disbelief.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley. Galleons.”

“I don’t want it,” she announced with no hesitation, “Put it in his vault.”

George looked down at her in sheer disbelief, shaking his head. He stammered for a moment before admitting, “Love, I don’t _have_ a vault!”

She looked up at him in disbelief. “There where have you been keeping—? Never mind.”

The Head Goblin tried to interject, but Ophelia interrupted him.

“Sod it, then, we’ll start a new vault, together.”

“Madame,” the Head Goblin condescended, “The Lestrange vault is among the seven deepest in the bank. To attempt to move the contents may prove unwise, owing to the sheer volume—”

“Then I want the name chiseled off, and replaced with Weasley.”

“ _Ophelia_!”

She turned to silence him. “You can fight me about it later, this is what’s happening.”

The trio of goblins seemed positively stunned. The Head Goblin stammered, “M-madam Lestrange, I assure you—”

She interrupted. “Assure me you’ll do it, or I’ll close the account, and move it all back to _le_ _Cimetière du Père-Lachaise_. Change the name to Weasley. Whatever the cost, I think we’ve established that I can afford it.”

The Head Goblin narrowed his beady eyes, looking her over disapprovingly.

“And you’ll see to it that from this day forward, any member of the Weasley family will have access to the vault,” she continued, “I’ll send along a list of names.”

After a tense silence, he stood, and replied through gritted teeth, “Very well, Madame Lestrange. Do you have any other requests of us before we take our leave? We’ve quite an undertaking ahead of us.”

She stood as well, extending a hand down to the goblin. “I expect we’ll be along with additional deposits sometime in the coming week. By then, I want the name changed.”

“Very well,” he acquiesced, stiffly shaking her hand.

“This is a new era for the Wizarding World,” she said, staring unabashedly into his eyes, “The name and deeds of Lestrange have no place in it. May they die with me.”

When the goblins had left, and the door was shut and bolted behind them, George turned to his lover in abject astonishment.

“What are you thinking?” he gasped, striding over and taking her by the shoulders, “That’s _your_ money, what are you _doing_?”

“That’s right!” She took his face in her hands and gazed imploringly into his hazel eyes. “It’s my money! And it’s more than I could spend in ten lifetimes, so you and your family are going to share it with me!”

“That’s rubbish, Ophelia, you should—”

She interrupted in a voice that was nearly a shout. “ _Think of all I’ve cost you_!”

“No!” he shook her by the shoulders, “Think of what you’ve _spared_ us! The lot of us! Not just my family, but Harry! Lee! Neville, Ollivander, _everyone_! You don’t need to give any more!”

“But I _do_!” she impressed, “You _know_ I do! Because it should’ve been me instead of Fred!”

He groaned in frustration. “I told you never to say that again!”

“But it’s _true_!” she insisted, “It was _my_ debt, and he paid it! So, the least I can do now is take care of his family. Take care of you. And this is all I have to give, anymore, George. This stupid, stupid money. God knows I don’t want it.”

It was so strange. They hadn’t argued about money since they were 16.

He began pacing around the room, massaging at his temples. “Christ, do you know how hard it was for us, when we were kids?”

“I know!” she breathed, frustration mounting, “Your family—”

He waved her off. “No, I’m not talking about that! I’m talking about me and F-Fred! And you!”

She sighed wearily. “What?”

“We _never_ felt like we were good enough for you, did you know that? And we were always so bloody scared that we’d never be able to make you happy—”

“But that’s rubbish!”

“Will you listen to me?” he implored, “We never had the money to do things for you, and then when we did, we knew it would never compare to what you were used to having! Do you know what it was like, knowing that everything we could’ve given you, you’d have been able to get for yourself, and _better_?”

“I wasn’t with you for money!” she insisted, “I was— _am_ , with you because I love you! And you don’t love people out of the hope for a reward, George! What about how hard it was for me, that you wouldn’t take _my_ money to start this place with? I had— _have_ so much more than Harry, and maybe _I_ wanted to do something for _you_!”

“Harry didn’t want blood money!” he dismissed.

“ _Exactly!”_ she shouted, “ _Neither do I_!”

That, at least, seemed to stun him into silence.

“And that’s precisely what this is!” she continued, “I killed my own family, George! I killed them all, and _this_ is my reward for surviving! I killed them, they trusted me and they loved me, and I killed them!”

.

.

.

The following morning, Ophelia awoke with a pang of fear. She’d been dreaming of Fred, watching the light go out of his eyes, over and over and over again. Panting and frightened, she reached out for George, but was further distressed to find nothing but cold, empty bed either side of her. She sat bolt upright, chest heaving.

“Georgie!’ she cried, voice quavering slightly in her panic, “George Weasley!”

“ _Shh_!” It was coming from the sitting room. “Come out here!”

She leaped from the bed, hastily donning her dressing gown and stumbling out of the bedroom. George was crouched beside the bay window, peering around surreptitiously. It was midmorning, at least.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, striding towards him, “What’s going on?”

“ _Shh_!” he scolded again, waving his hand frantically, “Keep away from the window!”

Exasperated and confused, she gave the window a wide berth as she took up her place opposite him.

“What are you so worked up about?” she demanded in a harsh whisper, crouching down across from him. It was then that she noticed the broad, mischievous smile on his face.

“What’re _you_ worked up about? Damn! The vultures are circling, look.” He pointed towards the street below. “But you’re just in time. I reckon they’re about to set it off.”

She peered carefully out of the corner of the window to see a throng of reporters all crowded around the entrance to the shop. There must have been a dozen of them, at least, all milling about, and armed with cameras, Quick Quotes Quills, audio recorders, the whole lot. She recognized most of them from the trial. Even Rita Skeeter was down there.

She furrowed her brow. “Wait, set _what_ off?”

No sooner had she asked than one of the reporters boldly stepped forward and took hold of the door handle. There came a sound like the crashing of a wave, and instantly, the entire group found themselves standing in the knee-high water of a Portable Swamp. They all started shrieking in surprise, trying to wade their way out of it. Rita Skeeter was heaving shallow, panicked breaths, looking down at her ruined skirt-suit in visceral disgust.

George clapped his hands in triumph, succumbing to his first genuine, unburdened laugh since Fred died. Ophelia gaped down at the scene, a smile gradually pulling at her lips.

“Wait, wait, wait—” George held up a hand, “Oh, he’s going back again, look at him go!”

This time, when the determined reporter tried to shove the door open, a symphony of fireworks exploded from all around. Shocking-pink Catherine wheels, hordes of tiny, screeching dragons. Innumerable rockets, with long tails raining down silver and gold stars. She watched as a dragon struck a nearby burst of green sparks, and they combined into a squealing, neon pig. And then, the _piece de resistance_ came in the form of a message in massive, shimmering letters: SOD OFF!!! It bobbed up and down above the doorway, flashing in bright, Weasley orange.

George was absolutely cackling with delight, rising to his knees to get a better look at the chaos he’d wrought.

“Brilliant!” he wheezed, “Absolutely brilliant! Couldn’t have gone better!”

It was then that Ophelia took note of the fact that he was still in the same clothes he’d been wearing yesterday. That, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

“Did you sleep last night?” she chuckled nervously.

“No! Not a wink! I found eight Deflagration Deluxe sets, downstairs, fixed them with that concise little message, and rigged them all up outside. Five on the door, well, _four_ now, and three on this window. Anytime someone tries to break in, _boom_! I reckon that and the swamp ought to keep them busy, eh?”

Though he hadn’t yet noticed, she was beaming at him. There was a feeling swelling in her chest, and though she wasn’t entirely sure how to label it, she enjoyed it. The fireworks were spectacular, there was no doubt, but she found she could hardly be bothered to watch. Instead, she was entirely transfixed by George. With the broad, proud smile on his freckled face, and that twinkle of mischief in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in what seemed like years, he was the thing giving her that feeling. Of that she was certain.

“ _And_ ,” he added, “With all the fireworks flying about, I don’t reckon they’ll manage to get a single, usable photograph of us, through the windows.”

“You’re brilliant,” she marveled.

He looked over at her, finally, and his smile only grew. But before he could speak, a voice from outside rose above the rest.

“ _There he is! At the window_!”

All at once, flashbulbs began to pop.

“Oh, damn,” George grumbled, “The game is up.”

Ophelia clutched at the hem of his shirt as he stood. “No, wait! What are you doing?”

He flung the window wide, leaning down to shout at the trespassers. “Can’t you read?” he pointed down at the rude fireworks display, “Sign says we’re closed!”

They were all shouting questions, clambering to get a photograph of him. Demanding to know where Ophelia was. But George just laughed. And then, one of the reporters had the bright idea to try and vanish the fireworks. At that, the chaos only intensified. The noise and explosions seemed to multiply by ten. The letters above the door doubled in size, growing brighter, and beginning to rain harmless but annoying sparks down onto the crowd. Ophelia could hear them hissing as they landed in the swamp water.

George laughed triumphantly, and she watched as he threw up the double-forks. “You parasites!” he cried, “You’ll never take us alive!”

With that, he finally slammed the window, and dropped back down to the floor beside her. For a time, they just looked at each other, listening to the chaos outside. Ophelia was smiling, he realized. Actually, really, truly smiling.

She reached out to place a hand on his cheek shaking her head in disbelief.

“What?” he goaded, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“Georgie,” she whispered, “He’d be so proud of you.”


	7. The Kids Aren't Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the end, I'd do it all again.  
> I think you're my best friend.
> 
> Blessed be the boys time can't capture.

George and Ophelia spent a few days alone, locked up in the flat together. Gradually, they had begun to make an effort. The curtains stayed drawn, for the most part, to keep out both the prying eyes, and the near-constant flash of fireworks. They slept, perhaps more than they should’ve. But they played music. Ophelia wore her own dressing gown. George spent the entire night in bed with her, even if it meant lying awake for a while. They ate, avoided reading the paper. Learned to live, again.

They placed Fred’s wand atop the mantlepiece, beneath a bell jar. Beside it sat the photograph of the twins on the front steps of the shop, now framed. The photograph they hadn’t been able to send to her. The photograph with Freddie’s chaotic handwriting on the back. It was painful to look at, sometimes. George and Ophelia found they’d either avert their eyes as they walked by, or linger for far too long, staring up in silence at the little shrine they’d made for him. At the very least, it felt as though he had a permanent place in their home. As he did in their hearts.

Ophelia began to notice that it took George a very long time to respond, when she spoke to him. She’d ask him something, and he’d carry on doing whatever it was he was doing for a few seconds. And then he’d look around, almost stunned, before answering her. She knew what was happening, and it broke her heart. He was waiting for Fred to speak first, and he would only remember that he was gone when the voice didn’t come.

It helped if she said his name, first. Helped him realize she was talking to _him_ , and not _them_. It wasn’t something they ever discussed; they didn’t need to. She just met him with quiet understanding, and he loved her desperately for it.

George clung to her, far more than he ever had before. He didn’t like it, when they were in separate rooms. And when they were together, he had to be touching her. Clasping her hand, holding her in his lap. Resting his head on her chest, so he could hear her heart was still beating. It wasn’t something she needed, per se. But she let him cling to her all he wanted, because she saw that it brought him some small measure of comfort.

For her part, Ophelia seemed to still be stuck in the emotionless middle-ground of Azkaban. She couldn’t be startled, couldn’t be frustrated. She didn’t smile much, didn’t sing. But neither did she cry. She would drift silently through the flat, making George jump when she’d appear suddenly behind him.

Kingsley sent them letters, offering them both positions as Aurors in his Ministry. George Weasley and Ophelia Lestrange, the N.E.W.T. dropouts. The criminals. Of all people. George declined outright; he’d found his calling, and nothing would ever tear him away from the shop. Kingsley accepted that. He understood. But he had pulled out all the stops in his efforts to recruit Ophelia. He was all but begging her to take the job. But, to George’s complete surprise, she declined as well.

“No one else in the world knows better, how dark wizards think,” he’d tried to convince her, “You’d be the best Auror they’ve ever had.”

“We were at war,” she’d dismissed, “That choice was made for me, but this one is mine. I’ve given enough, George. All I want, now, is quiet. Here, with you.”

He didn’t press her. The subject of her career had always been a minefield, and he knew the last thing either of them needed right now was to row over it. The simple truth was that she’s never planned on making it this far. Never thought she’d survive the war. And he couldn’t fault her for it, no matter how much the idea saddened him.

He wouldn’t push her. He trusted her in all things, and at some point, he knew she’d become bored of sitting around the house. She’d find something to do. Find some sort of a calling, far less deadly than espionage. But she could take her time. After all, it wasn’t as though they were for a need of money.

In the end, after an endless litany of correspondence with the Minister, Ophelia finally agreed to provide the occasional consult to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But only if Harry Potter himself came by, personally, and asked very nicely. And she would never, ever enter the field again. No matter what.

The word “ _thrive_ ” seemed to be stuck in Ophelia’s head, like some kind of unattainable ideal. It played over and over, almost mocking her. She spent a great deal of time fretting over whether or not she and George would ever _thrive_ again. But for now, survival itself was an achievement to be savored. It felt a little like they were treading water. But at least they weren’t drowning.

And then, one morning, the pair found themselves awoken rather suddenly. The door to the bedroom burst open, sending light streaming in from the sitting room.

“Alright, that’s enough!” a shrill, female voice announced, “Get up!”

The curtains were suddenly yanked back, further bathing the room in blinding light. The pair groaned in protest.

“Blimey, you two are weird.”

Ophelia was laying on her back, with her head on the pillow. Her knees were slung over George’s chest as he lay curled on his side, facing the foot of the bed. One of his arms was wrapped between her legs, his hand clutching lightly at her ankle. Neither were decent, but luckily, the blankets had become oddly twisted around them overnight. Otherwise, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione might not have been so composed at the sight of them.

Ophelia cast her forearm across her eyes. “What time is it?” she asked hoarsely.

“It’s half past eleven,” Hermione told them, “And everyone’s been really worried about you two, so we thought it best not to wait for an invitation.”

“It was either us, or mum and dad,” Ron added, “So, you ought to count yourselves lucky.”

Ophelia exhaled in quiet frustration as sleep began to slip away from her. It had been dreamless and blissful, with George clinging to her like that. They’d come closer than ever to making love, the previous night. They’d kissed and held each other for what seemed like hours, before stopping when Fred’s absence became too much to ignore. But it had been alright. They’d talked about it. It had been a good step, and they’d been strangely content when they’d fallen asleep. And now, this. Shattering the tentative comfort they’d worked so hard to build.

Ginny sat down at the foot of the bed, shaking her brother by the shoulder. “Come on, Georgie,” she urged softly, “We’re going to make breakfast, and then get the shop back in order.”

He pulled the pillowcase up over his head. “No. Get out.” His voice was tired and muffled, but jarringly severe.

“We’re not leaving, mate,” Ron announced, “You can give that up right now.”

Blindly, Ophelia reached out towards the nightstand, in search of her wand. She’d close those damn curtains, levitate the intruders straight back out the door, and lock it behind them. But Hermione snatched it up before she could find it, taking George’s, too, for good measure.

“Give me my wand, Hermione,” she wearily insisted.

“No. You’ll both get them back over breakfast.”

Ginny bent to give her brother a kiss on the head, through the pillowcase. “Get up.”

With that, they left. Thankfully, they closed the door behind them.

“I suppose we’re getting up, then,” Ophelia whispered in dismay, touching him lightly on the cheek.

George tightened his grip on her, running his thumb along her smooth shin. “I suppose we are.”

A few minutes later, they emerged from the bedroom in their dressing gowns. The trio of intruders were seated around the table, breakfast ready and waiting. But George and Ophelia felt little more than resentment.

“Good of you to join us,” Hermione said brightly.

“How did you lot even get in here?” George grumbled, flopping down on a chair and dragging Ophelia into his lap. She closed her eyes, leaning her cheek down onto the top of his head.

“Your swamp’s gone,” Ron revealed.

“Of course, it has,” George sighed in frustration. “Damn it all. Why do I feel as though we’re in trouble?”

“You’re not,” Hermione reassured him, “But you can’t wallow like this forever. At some point, you’ve got to—”

_(Move on.)_

“What?” Ophelia snapped, “We’ve got to _what_?”

“Settle down,” Ron scolded.

After a tense moment, Ophelia announced, “I’m not hungry,” and rose to her feet. With a quick kiss on George’s temple, she turned and made her way back to their bedroom. He clung to her arm for as long as he could, feeling his heart sink a little as her fingers slipped from his. He watched her walk away, wishing more than anything that he could join her.

“I’ll sort her,” Hermione said as she stood, “George, _eat_. You’re skin and bone.”

Before Ophelia could even lay back down, Hermione had rushed into the room, and closed the door behind her.

“Give me my wand back,” Ophelia tiredly demanded, turning to face her.

Reluctantly, Hermione relinquished it over to her.

“We’re taking this at our own pace, you know,” she informed her, “You don’t see what happens behind closed doors, and when you consider I’ve been out of Azkaban for a week, I think you’ll find we’re doing alright.”

“And everyone understands that, Ophelia,” she justified, “But we’re all worried.”

“Well, don’t be.”

“George needs this,” she impressed, “He’s lost his twin.”

“I _know_ he has!” she snapped, perhaps more forcefully than she’d intended. But she suddenly found herself unable to back down. “But it’s hardly my fault I haven’t been here for him, is it? Take that up with the Malfoys! Take it up with the Ministry of fucking Magic!”

Hermione’s remark had lit a kind of defensive flame in her chest. She felt betrayed by these people, overlooked. As though, somehow, they didn’t think that a month in Azkaban was worth all the fuss she was making. Like all of this was somehow less fair to George than it was to her.

“No one blames you,” Hermione defended, “We’re here to help you both. Come sit with us while we fix up the shop. It’s our fault it was looted to begin with; Harry and Ron and I. And it might be good for you to spend some time—”

“No,” she interrupted, feeling her eyes begin to sting, “I won’t. I can barely walk through there.” She was remembering the first time she ever came to this place. How surprised they both were to see her; how proud Fred had been of the wild stunt he’d pulled in front of the entire school. How they threw her up onto the counter and…

“Well, then, you don’t have to be down there with us,” Hermione allowed, “But you can’t lie around in bed all day, either.”

“Why not?”

“Think of what Fred would say!”

She was aghast. “Don’t you _dare_ use him against me like that! You’ve absolutely _no idea_ —”

“Ophelia, I don’t want to fight you!” Hermione interrupted, frustration mounting.

Her head fell back, and she breathed a weary sigh. “My god, then don’t! Just let me do what I want!”

“No!” she insisted, “You’re staying out of bed today, and _doing_ something! I don’t care what it is, but you’ve got to do something.”

She exhaled in quiet frustration, absolutely fuming. But, clearly, this was not a fight she was going to win. “Fine.”

An hour later, she emerged from the bedroom to find the kitchen empty. She’d showered and dressed, donning one of her long, flowing dresses with a plunging neckline. A black, lace shawl hung demurely from her elbows. A tasteful way to obscure her Mark, in the summer heat. More out of habit than anything, she had her dagger strapped to her thigh.

The dagger that killed Rodolphus Lestrange.

She made her way down the stairs into the shop, where George, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione were beginning to chip away at the damage. All the windows were open, and there was music playing. She couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t understand it.

“Hi, there, beautiful,” George greeted, smiling up at her. He must have dressed while she was in the shower, without her noticing. He’d donned a pair of his purple drainpipes, and the matching waistcoat. His collared shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He looked healthy and handsome and happy, standing behind the counter, fiddling with the till.

That _goddamn_ counter.

Face blank and expressionless, she took him by the hand and led him away towards the front door. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione craned their necks to watch, intensely concerned.

“I can’t stay here right now,” she whispered, combing his hair back with her fingers as they stood in the doorframe.

He nodded in reluctant understanding. “What are you going to do, then?”

“I don’t know. Here, love, you’re a mess—” She spun him around, tilted his head back, and began weaving a thick, Dutch braid through his long hair. “I think I’m just going to walk around for a while. The Prefects won’t let me go back to bed, so…”

“They’re only trying to help,” he gently reminded her.

“Yes, well, I thought we were doing alright on our own. Not perfect, but getting through it.”

After a pause, he admitted, “I dunno. Maybe not.”

It stung. Her first instinct was to demand of him why she wasn’t enough, what more he could possibly _want_. She knew it was selfish, she knew it was unfair. But it’s how she felt, and she couldn’t change that. Even still, the answer was obvious: she wasn’t Fred. And if she couldn’t bear to help him with the shop, someone else had to. Because it’s what he really, truly, deeply _needed_.

“Alright,” she conceded, hoping desperately that she’d been able to mask her slight bitterness. She tied off the long braid, and slung it over his shoulder. “You do whatever you need to do.”

“What about you?” he asked, turning to face her again.

She shrugged. “I’ll be alright.”

He took her by the chin and pulled her into a kiss. Short, and sweet. “Don’t be out all day, yeah?”

“We’ll see,” she murmured, placing a reassuring hand on his cheek.

With an understanding nod, and one, final kiss, he let her go. He watched her until she disappeared around the corner of the empty streets, heart aching with love and worry. Even after she’d gone, he listened to the fast click of her high heels on the cobblestones until they faded into the distance. He really, really hoped she’d be alright.

She wandered through the streets, for a time, searching for some distraction from her ennui. The alley was uncharacteristically subdued, for a summer afternoon. The few people who saw her gave her a wide berth, whispering behind her back. She saw their eyes travel across the X’s on her cheek, gazes lingering on the lethal charm hanging from her nose. Its purpose surely would be common knowledge, by now. And nearly everyone she passed had to steal a glance at her forearm. But her shawl lay draped over her elbows, and she found a touch of cruel delight in allowing none of them to see the Mark.

For a moment, she wondered if it wouldn’t be better for George and her to keep up with what the papers were saying. But there was nothing to be done about it, then. So, she held her head high, trying to cling to whatever shred of nobility she had left. She turned down into Knockturn Alley, past Borgin and Burkes, past Cobb and Webb’s. Sayre’s Crimson Door was boarded up entirely, with a Ministry notice nailed to the front door.

***

By Order of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement

** Closed Permanently **

Decree for the Restriction of the Dark Arts #4224

Witnessed by **:** _ Gawain Robards_

*******

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Sayre was a bastard, but he deserved better than he got. She didn’t have it in her to be sick over it, though. She had other, more important people to mourn. The world was full of Faolan Sayres, and it always would be. Root one out, and two more pop up in his place. Someone would buy the shop, sooner or later, and it would be just as sinister a place as it ever was. No Ministry decree could ever stop the endless thread of darkness that runs like a vein through the hearts of men.

Continuing her stroll, she stopped into Cimmerian, and arranged for her long-forgotten array of bespoke _vêtements_ to be delivered up to Number 93. Even they seemed wary of her. Though, she couldn’t discern whether it was out of resentment for her monstrous betrayal of the Dark Lord, or the realization that, after all this time, she truly was as lethal as the rumors had said.

Her next stop was Gringotts. It had been an impulsive decision, rather than any calculated plan on her part. As bitterly regarded as she had been by the witches and wizards outside, the goblins’ resentment of her was, somehow, even more palpable. With an air of thinly-veiled disdain, they took her down into the depths of the bank, where she laid eyes on the new name emblazoned above her vault. The work was seamless, the name of Lestrange entirely erased from the stone. She was pleased with it.

It was with an air of cruel relish that the goblins relayed to her the exorbitant fee they’d charged for the work. They cited nonsense to her about the age of the stone, structural vulnerabilities, and protective enchantments, trying to justify the extravagant figure. George would’ve throttled them right then and there, if he’d heard the sum, and likely her as well. But she didn’t care. She could afford it. She left with her head held high.

As she stepped out of Gringotts, a voice sounded from beside her that made her blood boil.

“As I live and breathe,” it exclaimed in gossipy interest, “Miss Lestrange, stepping out for a summer afternoon about town.”

Ophelia stopped dead in her tracks, pausing to take a deep, stilling breath before rounding on Rita Skeeter. She was leaning in the doorway to the Daily Prophet office, Quick Quotes Quill poised and ready. The look in her eyes as she peered over her rhinestone-encrusted glasses was haughty and ravenous. She must have seen her heading into the bank and waited here until she emerged again.

“No Georgie, today?” she remarked intrusively, the acid-green quill scratching frantically across its notepad. “Not having a little tiff, are we? The pressure of prison too much for Weasley to weather?”

“I’ve nothing to say to you,” she replied with finality.

“Ophelia,” she condescended, throwing an arm around her shoulder, “My readers are desperate! Who would I be if I let you deny them the opportunity to hear your side of the story?”

Ophelia bristled, casting her a reproachful glance to which she did not react in the slightest.

“You, my dear, are a dark horse,” she impressed, jabbing a long-nailed finger into her bare chest, “A frightened little girl turned reluctant hero. What a polarizing figure! Just think of the headline! Double Agent and Double Trouble: The Risks and Romance of Ophelia Lestrange!”

She’d heard more than enough. Looking straight into her eyes, Ophelia pointed at the pair of black X’s on her cheekbone. “You know what these mean, don’t you?”

With a disappointed sneer, Rita Skeeter cautiously withdrew. Ophelia turned away, and resumed her walk.

“Just remember,” she called after her, “Everything I don’t hear from you, I’ll hear from someone else!”

Ophelia glanced back over her shoulder, pointing to her tattoos again. “Everyone else knows what these mean, too.”

“Madame Lestrange, I’d been wondering when you’d drop by.”

She gave him a polite bow of her head. “Mr. Ollivander.”

“Come in,” he beckoned, summoning a chair from across the room for her. He still seemed so weak. Like his time at Malfoy Manor had shaved decades off his life. It broke her heart to see.

“I didn’t get the chance to speak with you, after the trial,” she began, taking her seat across from him, “But I wanted to express my most sincere thanks. If it weren’t for you, I think they would have sent me back to Azkaban and never, ever let me out. You saved me.”

He gathered his brow. “My dear, you saved me. It was the least I could do.”

She nodded solemnly, unable to equate the two. She could have done more, gotten him out sooner. But now was not the time to argue it. So, she simply said, “Thank you.”

“You know, they asked me to perform the _Priori Incantatem_ on your wand,” he revealed, “But I refused, outright.”

She was surprised to hear it. “Why?”

“I suppose I just couldn’t bring myself to help them incriminate you,” he admitted. “I know what you went through. I know why you did the things you did. The deeds and motivations of spies are lost on those Ministry boys; they see everything in black and white.”

She murmured some soft, wordless agreement.

“But war,” he continued, “War is a study in grey. We seemed to have forgotten that, after last time. It’s all too apparent in the way you’ve been treated. But your generation… I don’t think you’ll let it be forgotten again.”

She shook her head, eyes downcast. “It doesn’t feel like it’s over, yet. I’m still waiting for… Something else.”

“No, I don’t imagine you’ll feel like it’s over for a long, long time,” he mused, gazing off into the distance, “It’s not as though you’ll simply wake up one morning to find that everything has been mended. Healing moves with more subtlety than that.”

She listened in solemn silence as he spoke, feeling the gravity to each of his words.

His brow knitted together. “I imagine that, once day, you’ll take a look around and find that, somehow, you’re smiling again. The dark times will still be there, of course, they always will be. Still as vast and terrible as ever. But you’ll have grown bigger around them.” After a pause, he seemed suddenly to snap out of a trance. He shook his head gently, casting her a warm look. “Would you mind it terribly if I asked to see your wand?”

It took her a moment to react. Then, stunned and blinking, she drew it from her pocket and offered it out to him.

He took it gently, holding it in both hands. “Yes,” he began wistfully, “My old adversary.”

“How do you mean?”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile. “I remember every wand I’ve ever made, my dear, and this was one of my first. Ebony, 14 ¼ inches. Phoenix core, they can be quite temperamental. This wand sat on my shelf for more than 50 years, waiting for the right person to come along and find it. Waiting for you.”

“Why?” she asked, “Why did it take so long?”

“The wand chooses the wizard,” he said, “That much has always been clear. And this wand needed someone content to live as an outsider. Call it detachment, if you will, or perhaps independence. This wand was made for someone capable of holding fast to their beliefs, no matter how terrible the cost. It needed someone powerful enough to tame it; to bend it to their own will. And the moment you stepped through my door, nine years ago, I knew that person was you.” He chuckled oddly, then, giving her a genuine smile. “Do you remember what you did?”

Ophelia gathered her brow. “No.”

“You introduced yourself, gave me a proper little curtsey, and then you held your hand out to me like this—” He demonstrated the gesture. “And I wondered, for a moment, if you expected me to kneel and kiss it.”

She stammered, feeling the heat beginning to rise to her face. “I am so sorry, I can’t believe—”

“Don’t apologize, my dear,” he chuckled, “I could see Narcissa Malfoy tugging at your strings, as though you were a little puppet. And, just as clearly, I could see the fire in your eyes. Oh, of course, I tried a few others on you first: Ash and Beech, even a tricky little Cypress. But it was only a self-indulgence, you know, to draw out my own suspense. I could hear the Ebony wand calling out from its place on the shelf. And so, it became yours. For years afterward, I wondered at what you would do with it. Would you serve the Dark Lord, as your family intended? Or, perhaps, no masters at all.”

“Love,” she impulsively blurted, “That’s the only reason I’ve ever done anything.”

He nodded pensively. “Yes. Of course.”

“It’s never failed me,” she told him, nodding towards the wand, “Not once. It was like it understood precisely why I had to do the things I did, even when those things were…” Her voice trailed off, but her meaning had been conveyed.

“I imagine it did understand,” he confirmed, spreading his hands apart and trying to bend it. “Tell me, have you ever been disarmed in combat?”

“Yes,” she admitted with no shame, “More than once.”

“Who by?”

“Severus Snape, usually. Voldemort disarmed me himself, once.”

“And yet,” he marveled, “Here is remains, completely unyielding.” He held it up to his ear, closing his eyes. “Yes, this wand understands. And, like you, it will never, ever change its allegiance. I can see, now, why it took the Aurors so long to break into it. And I would, perhaps, warn your Mr. Weasley to take care never to use your wand. Not even for simple spells.”

“Why?”

He cast her an odd smile. “It may backfire disastrously.”

Ophelia absorbed his every word with rapt attention. She was fascinated by this study that, admittedly, she had given very little thought to over the years.

“Tell me,” Ollivander probed, “How is your Divination?”

She was slightly taken aback by this apparent change of subject, but she answered honestly. “I’m an excellent seer. It’s… It’s actually quite distressing, at times.”

He nodded. “Yes, your mother was much the same way. What are your methods, if I may ask?”

“My palmistry has proven to be extremely accurate,” she told him, not without a distracting jab of guilt, “And I’ve had a few instances of mirror scrying. But that’s nearly impossible for me to control. It just seems to happen, every once in a while.”

Ollivander thought hard for a moment, twirling her wand between his fingers. “Palmistry…” he mused aloud, gazing off into the distance. “I dare say… It is most curious, Madame Lestrange.”

“What’s curious?”

His brow gathered slightly. “I knew that there was a war coming, ten years ago. I could see it in the wands I sold. Ash and Cypress. Blackthorn and Fir. Your Ebony. And I knew who would be a part of it. You, Cedric Diggory, Draco Malfoy. Hermione Granger. Harry Potter, of course. But…” He breathed a mirthless chuckle. “I never expected to see the Dogwood and Hornbeam twins come around again.”

The remark made her heart ache. And then, all at once, she found herself laid out by the duel sensations of grief and realization. She, Ophelia Lestrange, had been predestined to fight in this war. It had been inexorable, unavoidable. In some ways, it was more her birthright than the profusive contents of that stygian vault, or even the looming château in the countryside. Yes, she could see it now. It had been her fate, all along.

But Fred and George… She swallowed hard, and found she had to close her eyes for a moment. She only ever fought to protect them, and it had been out of so much love. But in doing so, she had tangled them up in it, too. Because they loved her back.

She had been made for this. They were not.

The thought had returned, scraping along the inside of her skull like a blunt blade, making a carving of those five words: _It’s your fault he died._

If he had never loved her, he’d still be alive. If only she’d ignored them, that day at the Quidditch World Cup, they’d be up the street right now, happy and rich and both of them alive and _together_. Perhaps she’d be in Azkaban, perhaps she’d be dead. Maybe she’d be up at Château Lestrange, quietly enjoying the spoils of war. Engaged to Draco, and completely miserable. Maybe Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell would be over in the shop instead; their clothes hanging in the armoire, their shoes by the door.

It made her sick to imagine. But if there was a chain of events that could end with Fred living a long, happy life, she would gladly take it. She’d force the hands of the clock back herself, even if it meant that he would never have loved her in the first place.

For a moment, she thought about voicing it aloud. She could feel the words surging in her chest, threatening to pour from her in a deluge. But now was not the time, nor the place. It was a private realization; a silent and self-inflicted torture that she knew she’d carry like a secret in her chest.

Instead, she simply whispered, “We’ve got Fred’s wand at home. On the mantlepiece.”

“Good,” Ollivander nodded in gentle encouragement, “That’s good, you keep it close. There’s nothing in the world that has more of him in it. You’re… You’re living up at Number 93 these days, then, my dear?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “I… We need each other.”

He cast her a warm, knowing look; the kind of look that only the very old and very wise ever wear. It was one she’d seen from Dumbledore more times than she could recall. And, somehow, it had never felt patronizing. Not from him, and not from Ollivander, now.

“Well, then I suppose it’ll be Madame _Weasley_ any day, now?” he probed.

Despite herself, she gave him a slight smile, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t presume to guess.”

What he said next shocked her. “Tell me, my dear, have you ever considered studying wand lore?”

She stayed with him for hours, helping him set the shop back in order. She left her shawl draped across her chair, unashamed of her Dark Mark. He didn’t press her to speak, rather, he gave her space to say and do what she needed. If that meant silence, so be it. He didn’t mind. He showed her some of the more unique wands in his inventory, explaining the odd nuances and veiled mysteries that lay within each one. And, in a completely unexpected turn, she found she loved it. She was desperate for more.

Around sundown, Mischief came soaring into the shop. He perched on the counter, and shouted, “ _Where’s she run off to?”_

Ophelia laughed. Her first good laugh in a while. “Is Georgie looking for me?”

“ _Go find her!_ _Where’s she run off to? Go find her_!”

“And who is this colorful little character?” Ollivander asked with an amused smile.

“This is Mischief,” she introduced, putting her arm out for him. He hopped over onto her shoulder, flicking at her hair with his beak.

“Well, it would seem he’s come bearing a message of some import,” he chuckled.

“George must’ve sent him out after me,” she explained, glancing out the window, “My god, it’s gotten late.” The sun had sunk very low, just barely shining out over the skyline.

“I ought to let you go home,” Ollivander realized aloud.

“You’re probably right,” she conceded, “I don’t want him to worry after me. He’s done enough of that, over the years.”

“Why don’t you come back tomorrow, my dear?” he suggested, “That is, if you’ve nothing to do.”

A kind of warmth spread through her chest, and she cast him a brilliant, earnest smile. “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. I think I’d like that very much.”

When she arrived back at Number 93, she found George sitting atop the counter. Eyes downcast, he was fiddling with some small, brightly-colored package. He hadn’t noticed her, not yet. The setting sun cast a shaft of golden light across him, catching each of the tiny flecks of dust in the air.

For a moment, she just leaned against the doorframe and watched him. Drinking in the sight of him as a woman dying of thirst. The graceful angles of his hands, and the gentle shapes of his pale, freckled forearms. She wanted to press her lips against the V of exposed skin on his chest, visible through his unbuttoned shirt. His long, slender legs dangled off the edge of the counter, and he was swinging them slightly. Whether it was from simple restlessness, or out of worry for her, she couldn’t say. But it made him look so young and boyish. It reminded her of when they met. When they fell in love. A single strand of hair had pulled loose from the braid she’d given him, and it hung down to frame his face. The sun seemed to catch all of the hidden notes of blonde in his fiery hair. He seemed utterly perfect.

In that moment, her love for him had never been so tender, or so sad. Her heart was full of both wonder and fear. _He’s beautiful_ , she thought. _Everything that’s beautiful and worth fighting for, everything that ever was, lies in him_.

The moment, like all perfect moments, had to end. But she would see it out gently. She raised a hand to the doorframe, knocking delicately.

He looked up, and when his lips found their soft smile, she wondered briefly if her heart was about to break. He shoved the small package into his pocket.

“Mistress mine,” he greeted, extending a hand out to her.

She gave him a demure nod of her head, returning his gentle smile.

“Where have you been?” he asked, helping her hop up onto the counter beside him.

“Here and there,” she shrugged, taking in the sight of the shop. His inventory had been depleted significantly, and many of the shelves lay uncharacteristically bare. But everything was neat and tidy again. It had been righted. “It looks wonderful, in here.”

“Thanks,” he said genuinely, “Only took us all day, but she’s looking better. Harry came ‘round for a bit, but then he and Ginny left to do god knows what to each other. Ron and Hermione stuck it out till the end, though.”

Selfishly, she wondered if they’d talked about her. If Harry had asked where she was. But there was no reason to voice a selfish thing like that to George, so she didn’t. Instead, she simply appraised, “You did a wonderful job, love.”

He shrugged. “I dunno. I’m glad it’s done, at least. One less thing to worry about.”

She couldn’t fathom why he was downplaying the accomplishment, what the purpose was. But then he spoke again, quite revealingly.

“I don’t think I’m quite ready to be apart from you for so long, yet,” he admitted.

“No?” she gently asked, tucking the loose strand of hair back into his braid.

He shook his head. “I’ve gotten used to having you around. I don’t think I like not… I dunno, not being able to reach out and touch you, whenever I want to. Maybe it’s all the time we’ve spent apart, never really knowing if…” His voice trailed off sadly.

She murmured in quiet understanding, running her thumb across his cheek. “I know. But I’m back, now, and we’re both safe.”

“What have you been doing all day?” he asked, eyes downcast as he took her hand.

“Helping Ollivander, mostly. Did you know that his son is a Squib?”

“No,” he admitted, “Didn’t even know he had a son.”

She nodded serenely. “I suppose that’s how we all end up, isn’t it? Sacred 28.”

“Yeah, I reckon it is.”

After a beat of silence, she suddenly announced, “I think I’m going to study wand lore.” It wasn’t something she’d planned to tell him, quite yet. But there was no reason not to share it. He was her partner in all things.

He gave her an amused smile, nudging her slightly with his shoulder. “Really? You?”

She nodded pensively. “Yes. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about, before today, but it’s a good fit. Ollivander needs help, over there. He’ll never be as strong as he was before, I don’t imagine. And since I never really came up with a plan for my life, I suppose… It’s as good an idea as any. Especially since that whole wed-me-off-to-Denmark thing is pretty much bollocksed at this point.” She gestured vaguely towards the scar on her face.

He breathed a quiet laugh, face lighting up with pride. He was amazed by her; completely and utterly enamored. _This is what healing looks like_ , he realized. _This day. And we’ll be alright, I reckon._ Briefly, he thought he might weep. He could feel his eyes sting with the suggestion of tears. But then, he had a better idea. And it couldn’t wait one single moment longer.

He hopped down from the counter and stood in front of her. And then he dug in his pocket for a moment, before emerging with that small, brightly-colored box.

“What have you got there, love?” she asked, a quietly confused smile on her face. “It had better not explode, or give me a nosebleed.”

He looked deep into her face, and then opened it. It was a ring. It glittered with a trio of deep red garnets, set atop an intricate, gold band.

Her smile wavered slightly. “What?”

“Marry me, Ophelia.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a command. And if it weren’t for the fact that she was already seated, she may have collapsed from the shock of it. But, all at once, she realized it was exactly what she wanted. Perhaps the only thing she’d ever _really_ wanted, all her life. Even still, a million feeble protests bloomed in her mind. She’d been to Azkaban, she had a Dark Mark. She was a murderer, with a horrible, ugly, disfigured face. He didn’t want her, he _couldn’t_. As much as she wanted him, it just couldn’t be right. There was no way.

“Georgie,” she whispered, brow gathering as she looked between his face and the ring, “Are you _sure_?”

He laughed explosively, entirely blindsided by her reaction. “Yeah, O, I’m pretty damn sure. I think I’ve been sure since I was 16.” Suddenly, he was terrified.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes as she shook her head in protest. “No, you _can’t_ be sure, you simply _can’t_ —”

“Oh, no, don’t _cry_!” he insisted, brushing her tears away. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, “No, love, don’t do that! You haven’t even given me an answer, yet!”

“ _Yes_!” she exclaimed, as though it should’ve been obvious. “Yes, you— God dammit, George, of course it’s yes! We’ve _got_ to, what else is there to do?”

He released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, suddenly aware of how fast his heart was beating. He took the ring from its box, and she wiped her tears away as he slipped it onto her delicately tattooed finger. It looked right; the red and gold. It felt right. Joyous laughter bubbled up in her chest when he pressed his lips to it. She leapt down into his arms, and into his kiss. They were shaking, the both of them, but they clung to each other until it passed.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing her face into his smooth neck.

He grinned broadly, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. “I love you, too.”

“How long have you had this?” she asked, holding her hand out behind him to inspect the ring.

“Mmm. Fred bought it.” She could not see his sad smile, but she could hear the melancholy in his voice. “Before everything went to hell.”

“What… What did he think would happen?” she asked genuinely, “How did he think…?”

George shrugged, taking her hand in his to look at the ring. “I reckon he thought we’d be able to find _someone_ to do it, for us. If we paid them enough to keep quiet about it. Bill and Fleur could’ve been witnesses, and all, they’ve always been cool. Didn’t have to be legal or anything, I think he just… I dunno. Wanted to call you our wife.”

It was then that Ophelia realized how tightly he was squeezing her hand; how hard his fingers were rubbing against hers.

“That’s an awfully romantic notion,” she remarked, and George smiled.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Well out of character, eh?”

“We’ll just have to make him proud, then,” she announced definitively.

“Yeah,” George smiled, “We will.”

They made love that night, for the first time since Fred died. It was a cautious, deliberate thing; so guarded and fragile. George sat cross-legged on the bed and held her in his lap, pressing endless kisses to her scarred lips as she took him inside her. He wrapped his hand in her hair and whispered that she was beautiful, that she was loved. The warmth of it swelled in her chest until she almost believed him. She murmured his name, over and over again, like a desperate prayer. Only his name. It was not lovemaking in pursuit of climax, but a pursuit unto itself entirely.

Neither had wanted it to end. They could’ve stayed that way for hours, wrapped up in the languid pleasure of one another. It felt, to them, like coming home. And when they finished, they did so together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a fun little parallel, take a look at George and O at the Yule Ball. Chapter 8 of part 1, and then take a look at his proposal.


	8. Malleus Maleficarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open my eyes as I submerge  
> And I won't deny what I've been since birth  
> I'll die drowned by your standards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o, look out, everyone. She's dressin' like Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way, again.

George, Ophelia, Harry, and Arthur sat closely together in the front row of the Wizengamot gallery. George clutched at his fiancée’s hand, twisting the ring around her finger in a worried, repetitive motion.

She was dressed in the height of Lestrange nobility. Why, she did not know. The stiff, high collar of her Victorian gown seemed suddenly to be strangling her. The tangle of gold chains strung between her spiked epaulettes felt as though they were dragging her down. It was her armor, she realized. But it was so heavy. Beneath the stifling folds of her long, black skirt, she was anxiously tapping her foot, her calf muscle beginning to ache as a result.

Much like during her own trial, the courtroom was packed. The Wizengamot was arranged across from them, draped in their plum-colored robes. Robards was among them. His eyes came to rest on Ophelia, and she detected a hint of a sneer flicker across his face as he took in her regal appearance. Nevertheless, she gave him a polite nod. He did not return the gesture. Representatives from the media were clustered together to the left of the officials, fussing endlessly with their papers and cameras and microphones and Quick Quotes Quills. Like vultures circling a dying animal, biding their time before the feast. The gallery was abuzz with spectators; standing-room-only in the back rows. But their seats had been reserved for them, right in the front.

High overhead, a half-dozen Dementors swirled through the air, held at bay by a massive shield-Patronus that emanated from the Senior Undersecretary’s wand. Their presence made her instantly anxious.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Ophelia suddenly blurted, looking to Harry.

He met her gaze, a resolute expression on his face. “Neither do you,” he pointed out, “But if you’re gonna be here, so am I.”

The corner of her mouth lifted into a half-smile. “Thank you, my friend.” She leaned over, pressing a grateful kiss to his cheek. Across the way, flashbulbs popped, reporters chattered and shouted for their attention. Ophelia and Harry held up their hands, shielding their eyes.

“Oi!” George stood, giving them the forks. “Nose out, over there!”

Arthur tiredly yanked him back into his seat.

“It’s alright, love,” Ophelia reassured him, taking his hand again. “Thank you.”

Kingsley strode into the room, black robes fluttering, and the door closed behind him with a very final bang. The gallery fell silent as stepped up behind the podium, surveying the packed seats with a stern expression. She had never seen him in this role before, and she was in awe of him. Her dear friend, her battlefield compatriot. The Minister of Magic.

“I will now call to order this hearing of the Wizengamot,” he announced, banging his gavel and taking his seat. “Bring out the accused.”

The trap door in the center of the floor irised open, and with a great cacophony of metal-against-metal, the spiked cage rose into view. Flashbulbs popped, the crowd gasped and hissed. And, for the first time since she’d been marched past his cell in Azkaban, Ophelia Lestrange laid eyes on her father.

She squeezed her fiancée’s hand tightly as she took in the sight of him. He may as well have been a corpse. He swayed dangerously in the cage, nearly impaling himself several times. He was faced away from her, hands clasped in front of him. His long hair had gone nearly completely grey, and hung in lank strands that fell to his waist. He looked up at Kingsley, and Ophelia could only imagine the expression of contempt on his face.

“I feel like I could scream,” she whispered to George. Her hands were shaking.

“I know, love,” he murmured, clapping his other hand over hers.

Arthur leaned over behind his son and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Remember, my dear,” he whispered, “The cameras have you, right now.”

He was right. It was like they’d done it on purpose, for the press. Every photograph of her father would have her in the background.

“Rabastan Lestrange,” Kingsley began, “You stand accused of—”

“Save your breath, Shacklebolt,” he interrupted, “I’m guilty of everything, and proud of it. Send me back to Azkaban and be done with it.”

The crowd murmured frantically, members of the Wizengamot exchanging worried whispers.

Kingsley took a deep breath, waving for quiet. “As you are well aware, Mr. Lestrange, we have begun the process of phasing out Dementor guards at Azkaban Prison. It is my belief that the use of Dementors is a barbaric practice, and one that has no place in our society. But my colleagues have advised me that I should allow them to administer one final Kiss, before they depart. Upon you.”

Rabastan laughed, then; a deep, rasping sound. “Do you want me to beg?” he said, “Is that it?”

“You have escaped from Azkaban prison before, and I have no choice but to believe you’ll do it again.”

“ _Tu as putain raison, je vais_ ,” he muttered.

Ophelia shifted uncomfortably, tightening her grip on George’s hand.

“What?” Kingsley asked pointedly, putting a finger to his ear.

“ _I said you’re goddamn right, I will_!” Rabastan roared, “I’ll get out, no matter how many Aurors you fill that place with! The Dark Lord may be gone, but he still has loyal followers! And we will rise again!”

George could feel his fiancée quivering, shrinking in against him. He put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Do we need to leave?” he whispered in her ear.

“No,” she shakily reassured him, “I have to see this through.”

Rabastan had heard it. By some cruel trick of fate, he heard it. And at the sound of his daughter’s voice, he whipped around in his cage. The look on his face was wild and unhinged, deep violet eyes shining with rage.

“You!” he spat, “ _Petite créature traitre!_ How dare you? _Tu n'es pas ma fille!_ ”

She couldn’t help herself. She leapt to her feet, and shouted, “ _Oui, je suis ta fille!_ _Regarde mon visage, et vois ta propre échec!”_

“Not _my_ failure!”

Kingsley banged his gavel, trying to restore order. Flashbulbs popped, reporters clamoring over one another. George and Arthur tried to shush her, tried to drag her back down into her seat, but she did not relent.

 _“J'espère que ça vous détruit!”_ she screamed.

“Ophelia!” Kingsley finally shouted.

The room fell silent. With one look at his stern expression, her mouth snapped shut. She sank back into her chair, clasping George’s hand again.

“That’s all you’ve ever been,” Rabastan muttered, “Doing what they say, following orders, like a little puppet.”

She scowled. “At least I wasn’t _your_ puppet.”

“Alright,” Kingsley announced, “This gathering is no longer functioning as a trial, and I will not sit here and give you a platform any longer. I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minster of Magic, hereby sentence the prisoner Rabastan Lestrange to the Dementor’s Kiss. After which he will live out the rest of his days in Azkaban Prison.” With one final bang of his gavel, it was over.

The onlookers broke out in quiet, frantic murmuring. Rabastan whipped around to get one last look at his daughter, as his cage began to sink back into the floor. She met his gaze head-on, unblinking. Unafraid. But in his eyes, she saw a flicker of something like panic.

On the day the sentence was to be carried out, Kingsley escorted Ophelia to Azkaban prison personally. It was different than it had been when she was there. Of course, it was still the same tower, on the same island, mired in the same furious sea. But the unhinged madness of the place had been reduced substantially. Auror guards meant there needed to be light, and at least a modicum of warmth. The most jarring thing, to her, was the lack of screams. It hardly seemed like the same place at all.

George hadn’t come with her. He’d offered, of course. But she needed to face her father alone, one last time. It was something that he would never fully understand. But he loved her, so he stayed behind.

The Aurors took her wand, when she arrived, and searched her thoroughly before they let her into the building. When they were satisfied, they led her to a small chamber, on the ground floor. It was very much like the one George had been in, the day he came to see her. There, she sat before the barred window, and waited. Kingsley was outside, almost protecting her. The Aurors were regarding her with a kind of quiet hostility; something he greatly disapproved of. He would not see her mistreated, while she was here.

She dressed up for this. Like the trial. She had walked through the doors of Azkaban prison wearing black elbow gloves and a fur stole wrapped around her shoulders. To what end, she did not know. It had almost been a compulsion. Like she needed to separate herself as much as possible from the man she was about to see.

After a few minutes, the Aurors walked him in. It was a strange sight: her father bound in chains, towering over his captors. He threw himself down into the chair, on the other side of the bars, refusing to meet her gaze.

Ophelia suddenly realized that she did not know how to begin. She didn’t know what to say to this man. There was no fear in her, and no regret. Just unbreakable silence, hanging heavily between them.

“Come to see me off, have you?” he finally murmured. His voice was weak and breathy. Everything he did seemed to take great effort.

She nodded.

“ _Où est ton petit garçon idiot_?”

She thought to correct him, to insist he called George by his name. But she realized that she never wanted to hear George’s name spoken in her father’s voice. So, she simply replied, “He stayed home.”

Rabastan grimaced, almost writhing away from her. “You let that boy into _my house_?”

“It’s my house, now,” she calmly corrected, “But we live in the flat above his shop, in Diagon Alley.” Just as it had during the battle, her strength seemed to return all at once. She stared straight through the bars towards him, unafraid. “I’m marrying him, Rabastan.”

He made a sound like she’d physically hurt him, rattling at his chains.

One of the Aurors prodded at him with his wand. “Enough of that, Lestrange!”

“Why would you _tell_ me a thing like that?” Rabastan moaned.

“Because it’s true.”

He shook his head in dismay. “The things you’ve done to hurt me, Ophelia, and now this.”

“Me?” she demanded in a venomous whisper.

“Yes,” he spat, finally meeting her gaze. “You’ve betrayed the family who bore you, betrayed the family who raised you, forsook the Dark Lord, killed my brother…”

She was bewildered by this deeply flawed interpretation. “You _cursed_ me,” she breathed, “You cursed me with your name, cursed me with your face, and then abandoned me.”

“Not a curse,” he argued, “A blessing. A birthright. Just like the money— _My_ money, you’ve got draped all over you!”

She tugged her fur a little tighter but soldiered on. “Left me to be beaten by the Malfoys, and then returned to twist me into something you could make use of—”

“I made you strong!”

“I was a _child_!” she nearly shouted, “I didn’t need to be strong, I needed to feel _safe_!”

“ _Sûr. C'est absurde, tu_ —”

“ _Non_!” she interrupted, “ _Écoute-moi, maintenant!_ This world has only ever asked two questions of me: am I beautiful, and am I usable?”

He scoffed, shaking his head bitterly. “What more do you need to be?’

Ophelia blinked in stunned surprise, suddenly awash with realization. “ _Mon Dieu_ ,” she murmured, “Rodolphus was right. All along, he was right, you—”

At once, her father was lunging for the bars. “KEEP HIS NAME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!”

Ophelia did not flinch. Not as he reached and clawed for her, not as the Aurors tightened his chains and dragged him back into his chair.

“Are you quite finished?” she asked calmly, staring through the cage at the beast within.

“I hate you,” he murmured, head rolling limply to the side, “I hate you with all of my heart, for what you have done to us. I hope you remember that, every time you look in the mirror and see my face, and the scar my brother put on you.”

“I’ll wear this scar with pride,” she replied in a strong voice, “And I am honored by your hatred.”

“We’ll rise again,” he announced, then, “Those loyal to the Dark Lord will rise once more, and finished what he so valiantly started.”

“ _Those loyal_ ,” Ophelia repeated, shaking her head placidly. “No, Rabastan. I’m all that’s left. The names and deeds of Lestrange will die forever with me.”

A strange sort of chill fell over the room, then. Ophelia felt a hand on her shoulder. Kingsley.

“It’s time,” he said.

It all seemed to happen so quickly. The Aurors stepped back from her father, hooking his chains through a pair of bolts through the wall. A Dementor drifted into the cell, and Rabastan looked up at the creature with so much fear in his eyes. He looked the way he had when George was bearing down on him during the battle. The way he had when his Dark Mark stilled and turned red.

“You shouldn’t look,” Kingsley urged gently, as the Dementor reached for its hood, “You did what you came here to do.”

“No,” she swiftly negated, eyes fixed on her father. “I need to see it.”


	9. ...But Home is Nowhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so, so close to the end of this whole thing. Thank you guys so much for hanging tough, through it all.

“Georgie.”

He looked up from his work, and was shocked to see his lover standing at the top of the shop stairs, dressed as regally as he’d ever seen her. She had, for some baffling reason, donned a long-sleeve, corseted gown. A silver-grey fur stole was cast over one of her shoulders, clasped delicately in her long-nailed hand.

_Coffin nails_ , he though madly. The thought amused him.

For a moment, he wondered how many times she’d tried to get his attention, before he looked up. How long he’d been unintentionally ignoring her, expecting Fred to answer.

“Come with me to the castle,” she said.

He furrowed his brow, disoriented by the entire situation. “What, Hogwarts?”

She shook her head. “No. _My_ castle.”

Life had gotten away from them, in recent months, and Ophelia had only just remembered that Château Lestrange was hers for the taking. They decided to make a long weekend of the affair, Ophelia insisting that they pack only their most ridiculous and opulent clothes. She wanted to show him the place, and he wanted to see it. But he did not know what to expect.

She had to be the one to Apparate them there, just this once. After that, George would be able to do it, and she was glad of it. She hated twisting into that damned black smoke, and she knew he hated it, too. But today, it couldn’t be helped.

Ophelia said something very odd, just as she was taking his hand to Disapparate.

“Warn your warmth to turn away,” she murmured, “For the raven does not put out the eye of another raven.”

When she did not meet his gaze, he realized she was speaking more to herself than to him. And so he did not comment.

They materialized on the snow-blanketed drive, with their trunk. Ophelia didn’t look at the manor, but rather, at George. His head tilted back further and further as he took in the sight, brow furrowing, mouth opening slightly with the shock of it all. She couldn’t help but smile. Winter looked good on him, even if he didn’t agree. He was beautiful, that day, dressed in his rich, winter duster and finely crafted suit. His hair was still long, and gathering massive, glittering snowflakes as they stood on the drive. He said he wanted to keep it long for the wedding, and she thought that was a fantastic idea. She could braid it for him.

“Ophelia…” he whispered, awestruck, “You’re joking.”

“No,” she said gently, following his gaze across the blood-red façade. It looked even more hauntingly beautiful than usual, she thought, blanketed in pure-white snow. “This is mine.”

“Were… Did you grow up here?”

“I was born here,” she explained, “I can show you which room, and all. But I left when my parents went to Azkaban, and didn’t come back again until I was a Death Eater.”

He nodded slowly, eyes wide as he took it all in. In his experience, only the obscenely wealthy were born in their own manors. ( _To the manor born, isn’t that an expression?)_ Something about that detail stuck in his mind. It wasn’t as though this was a surprise to him. He’d known about her money his entire life, even before he knew her. He’d read out the balance in her Gringotts vault himself, the day the goblins came by. He’d seen the mountains of gold inside it.

_No_ , he realized vaguely, _it’s_ our _Gringotts vault._

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around the countryside.

“I’m not really sure,” she admitted, “They never told me. Reigate and Banstead, I think.”

He nodded pensively. “Surrey Hills. Has to be, I reckon.”

“Mmm. Shall we go inside? I wouldn’t want my summer boy to freeze, out here.”

“Yeah, alright.” His voice was distant and dreamy as he linked his arm with hers.

She gave his bicep a comforting squeeze, planting a kiss on his icy cheek. They stepped lightly through the snow, up the stairs to the massive iron doors. And, just as Rodolphus had done to her, she let him wonder for a moment.

“How…? There’s no handle,” he observed, scanning the surface in bewilderment.

She cast him a knowing smile, slipping her leather glove from her hand. “ _Attends_.”

She pressed her palm to the seam between the icy doors. And just as she had, nearly four years ago, George jumped back in surprise when the building began to rumble.

“No lock, and no key,” she revealed. “Only a Lestrange can open it.”

“What would happen if I tried?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she admitted, “But I can’t imagine we want to find out.”

When they stepped inside, the first thing Ophelia noticed was the cold. It was the same temperature inside as it was outside, and that would have to be their first order of business. George, on the other hand, was far too preoccupied by the grandeur of the place to pay it any mind. Though it had stood empty for months, it was perfectly preserved. No dust on the Harpy statue, not a single cobweb hanging from the black diamond chandeliers. Like the house had known its masters would return, and kept itself maintained while it waited. The only indication that it had been neglected was the cold, which he finally noticed.

“We need to warm this place up,” she announced, rubbing George’s hands between hers. He’d forgotten his gloves, as usual. “I can get to work on the fireplaces. Would you go and light the furnace in the cellar?”

He was transfixed, blinking in shock as he looked around.

“Georgie,” she coaxed gently, bringing his icy fingers to her lips.

He snapped out of it. “Hmm?”

“Can you go down and light the furnace, while I get to work on the fireplaces, please?”

“Yeah,” he said distantly, “Where?”

She pointed through to the salon. “Go through there, turn right through the kitchens, and it’s a little, wooden door beside the stove. You’ll have to duck, it was made for Elves.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Alright.” With a quick kiss on her temple, he was off, wandering through the castle. _She wasn’t exaggerating,_ he told himself. _That’s what this is:_ _a castle._

He tried to follow her directions, but when he turned right in the grand salon, he didn’t find the kitchens. Rather, a long, darkened hallway, beset on either side by lines of identical doors. He backed up; confused, and strangely anxious.

“Ophelia?” he called out.

No answer.

He blinked a few times, looking around the salon. And then he noticed a door that he could swear hadn’t been there, a moment ago. It was right beside the one he was standing in. He stepped through it, and sure enough, there were the kitchens. Not as big as the ones at Hogwarts, as far as he could tell, but close. He ducked into the tiny passageway beside the stove, to find himself in a small, freezing cellar. Not the sort of place he wanted to be in for long. He lit the ancient furnace with a hasty flick of his wand, and then retreated back up into the kitchen.

Something was different, he realized. He couldn’t quite place what it was, but something just seemed… _Off_. He retraced his steps, but when he walked through the door to the grand salon, he instead found himself face-to-face with the Harpy statue. He was back in the foyer.

He looked around in confusion. “What the f…? Ophelia!”

He heard her shout something in reply, but it was very distant, reverberating through the freezing manor. Anxiety mounting, he turned back around, and returned to the kitchen. Then it hit him, all at once: when he’d emerged from the cellar, the room had been flipped, like a mirror image. But now, it was back to normal. This time, he soldiered straight through the strange room, emerging in the formal dining hall. From there, a left turn led him straight into that same, weird hallway. Not something he thought he could tackle, at the moment. But when he turned around, he was looking at the goddamn Harpy statue again. This time, the massive front doors were slightly ajar, and there seemed to be an icy draft pushing him towards them. He strode over, and kicked them closed.

“Ophelia!” he shouted, more frantically this time.

“What’s the matter, darling?” She was much closer, now. “What’s all the screaming?”

He performed a quick about-face, and hurried back through the manor. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the dining room, my love.”

This time, the fireplace in the grand salon was lit. “What the bloody hell…?” _How did she sneak past me?_

He pushed his way through the door to the kitchen, only to find that blasted hallway, with all the doors. Was it longer, now?

“Ophelia!”

“ _What_?”

She was all the way at the end. But he really, really didn’t want to walk down that hallway. _Find another way_ , he decided. _I’ll wait in the foyer, if I have to, I’m not walking around in here alone for one more second_.

He turned around, and there she was. Kneeling beside the massive dining room table, tending the roaring fire she’d set in the wide hearth.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, clutching at his forehead.

She stood, and cast him a bemused smile. “What’s the matter, my darling?”

“This bloody place does my head in, Ophelia.”

She stepped over, wrapping her arms around his waist. “It’s a big house, love. I’ve gotten lost a few times, myself.”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “No, I honestly think it’s messing about with me! It wants me to leave!”

She stifled a quiet laugh.

“Hey, it’s not funny!”

“It is a bit, though,” she said with a guilty smile, “Just stick close to me. I’ll give you the tour.”

She walked him through the estate, room by room. From the _salon_ to the library, the master suite to the wine cellar. As promised, she even showed him the room in which she’d been born. George was awestruck. It had never occurred to him that real people, that _families_ , lived in places like this. It was so unlike his own home, so unlike any conception he’d ever held in his head for what “home” meant. He was reminded of their childhood, and the moment he’d realized that Ophelia had been raised with all of the money he’d never had, and none of the love. Still, he thought he’d much rather have had love. And so, despite her castle, he couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity for her.

When they reached a long gallery full of paintings and statues, she remarked, “Most of these were stolen from Muggles, can you imagine?”

George grimaced. “Blimey, that’s a bit evil, eh?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “We ought to figure out a way to get it all back to them. I can already hear Rodolphus clawing at his coffin over it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, immensely proud of her, “I’ll talk to my dad. If anyone would know how to do it, it’s him.”

George plundered the castle larders, that night, and prepared them a fantastic meal. Ophelia tried to help in whatever way she could, and he was unfailingly patient with her throughout. He even managed to be extremely gentle, when he was forced to reject her offer to make them both eggs for dinner. (It was, in her defense, the only thing she’d ever cooked before. Even if “cooked” was a _very_ generous word for what she’d done, that morning.)

They dined like royalty, that night. Ophelia, an heiress in noble resplendence, seated at the head of the table. And George, beaming and happy, sitting all the way across from her at the other end. They nearly had to shout, they were so far apart.

After dinner, she stood up, climbed up onto her chair, and strode straight across the long dining table towards the door.

George was entirely amused by this display of vintage lawlessness, laughing appreciatively as she approached.

“You ought to go find us something to drink,” she announced, hopping down beside him, “From the cellar.”

“Er… What do I get?” He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the concept of running around this place alone, again. But he’d manage, if there was wine involved. Besides, he knew where the cellar was. Sort of.

She shrugged. “I don’t care. Whatever you want. Whatever you find. There are probably thousands of bottles down there, just close your eyes and pick something.”

He frowned. “I don’t want to accidentally grab something that cost a bomb.”

She laughed, strolling casually from the dining hall. “Why not?”

He had to admit, she had a fair point.

“Hey!” he called after her, “We need to clear the table and do dishes!”

Her laugh was already very far away. “Give me one _single_ reason why.”

Again, fair point.

When he returned from the cellar with a bottle and glasses, it took a good while to find her. What finally tipped him off was the sound of her voice, echoing through the vacant halls. He followed the sound back through the grand salon, past the Harpy standing guard in the foyer, which he eyed suspiciously. She was somewhere in the towers, of that he was certain. But the Château seemed to be hiding her from him; maybe even actively working to obscure her location. He really did believe it was by design. He was an intruder, and it would go to great lengths to protect its mistress.

He finally found her in the library. (Luckily, he’d only wound up back in the foyer twice, this time around.) She was sitting on the rug, beside the massive hearth. The fire crackled invitingly. It paled in comparison, however, to the sight of his fiancée. She was entirely oblivious to his arrival, pouring through some massive, dusty tome. As far as he could tell, she was completely naked, save the opulent furs wrapped around her. He couldn’t discern how many there were, but they seemed to be swallowing her up. Her smooth, pale legs were folded demurely beside her, and she leaned down on her free hand as she flipped through the book. The scar down her face stood out sharply in the firelight, but she seemed, at least momentarily, unbothered by it. It was a rare thing, he realized. He wished she could see herself through his eyes, if only for a moment. She might not worry over that scar so much.

To him, she was resplendent. Perfect and regal, covered in her battle scars.

And then she began to sing again, soft and high. His breath hitched in his throat at the sound. It was the first time he’d heard it, since the night he lost his ear.

“ _Nineteen years end, still speaking in these tongues._

_Such revelations, while understood by no one.”_

She began to project, and his skin broke out in gooseflesh.

“ _When the new actor stole the show, who_

_Questioned his grace?_

_Please clear the house of ill-acquired taste.”_

He exhaled softly, as she dove into what he presumed to be the chorus.

_“This is my line, this is eternal._

_Discarnate, preternatural._

_Absent of grace, marked as infernal._

_To this nature, so unnatural.”_

Her voice faded, and she became consumed by her book.

“Don’t stop,” he begged softly.

She looked up, finally noticing him in the doorway. A warm smile spread across her face at the sight of him, and she gave him a demure nod.

“My Liege Lord,” she said, extending a hand out towards him.

He went to her gratefully, joining her atop the furs. He sat down behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. He realized that he had been mistaken in his assessment- she was not naked, after all. Rather, clad in the most thrilling set of undergarments. They were little more than straps and black lace, clinging to her form in such a delicious, indulgent way. He was torn between appreciating the artistry of it, and wanting to take it all off immediately.

“What are you reading, there, love?” he asked, leaning over to inspect her book.

“It’s a history of the Château,” she explained, lifting the cover to show him, “Sort of an instruction manual for the place. I’m trying to figure out if there’s any way I can fix the door, so it lets you in.”

“Honestly, O, I don’t think this place likes me very much,” he admitted, looking around the library, “I think it really does want me out of here.”

“Well, it’s just going to have to get used to you,” she announced loudly, “The last English Lestrange says so.”

He flipped through the book a little, before realizing aloud, “It’s all in French.”

“Most of the books are. Here—” she said, settling in beside him, “ _Depuis sa construction en 1537, la liste des charmes et malédictions protégeant le château n'a fait que grandir.”_

He chuckled softly. “Alright, Princess, settle down.” Despite the remark, he did always enjoy listening to her speak French.

She translated for him, “It says, ‘Since its construction in 1537, the list of charms and curses protecting the castle has only grown.’ And then it goes on to name them all. Most of the really nasty stuff is Anti-Muggle, so I think you’ll be _safe_ , at least. Pure-blood, Sacred 28 and all. Except for that blasted front door,” she said, casting a disapproving glance towards the foyer. “I haven’t quite got that bit sorted, yet. So, don’t touch it, alright?”

George nodded, leaning his cheek down onto the top of her head. This was all a bit overwhelming for him. He felt like he needed to ground himself against the only familiar thing in the room. He knew her, and he loved her. Even if she did have a creepy castle.

She hung her hand from his wrist, leaning into his embrace. “What am I meant to do with it, Georgie?” she asked, eyes traveling across the massive library.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, following her gaze, “But it’s all yours.”

“Maybe I ought to burn it to the ground,” she murmured, gazing into the crackling fire. She was more serious than her tone had let on.

“Nah,” he said softly, planting a kiss on her head, “Let it stand, I reckon. Put it to some good use.”

She couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine what sort of _good use_ a place like this could be put to. But it was a question for another night.

“I feel so old,” she whispered, settling into his arms.

He could feel her reaching up to run her fingers along the scar. So, he took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Me, too.”

It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear, not at all. And, all at once, she saw them both for what they really, truly were: just a pair of irreparably damaged kids. N.E.W.T. dropouts. Juvenile delinquent wrecks. She was 19 years old, he was all of 20. But they had witnessed horrors that most could scarcely imagine. They had felt losses from which they would never truly recover, for the rest of their lives. And yet, here they sat: unthinkably wealthy, in a castle that was entirely their own.

“It’s a bit weird,” he tentatively remarked.

“What?”

“Like… I sort of feel like I’m trying to figure out how to be one whole person, on my own.”

It broke her heart to hear, but she was glad he’d said it. She was wondering when he was going to voicing that to her, if ever he was. “You were always a whole person, my darling,” she reassured.

“I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to cast a Patronus again,” he announced, feeling a sickening drop in his stomach at the admission. It had been eating him up inside for months, and suddenly, the burden of it seemed too great to carry alone.

She turned to face him, her expression one of gentle concern.

“I feel weak,” he admitted.

“No,” she breathed, placing a hand on his cheek, “No, my love, you’re the strongest person I know.”

He shook his head, closing his eyes and placing a hand over hers. “I’m not. I’ve never been to Azkaban, or lied to Voldemort, or felt the _Cruciatus_ curse. Hell, I’ve never cast the _Cruciatus_ curse _at_ Voldemort, I—Christ, I watched you do that! Or—” He sighed deeply. “No. I’m not, not like you.”

“It can’t be compared.” She spoke gently, but deliberately. “You’ve seen horrors too, things I could never begin to understand. And yet, you wake up every morning and choose to keep fighting the very battles that left you so tired the night before.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

“Do you realize how many sad and broken little children will grow up with joy in their lives, by the light of your magic?”

He looked up at her, blinking back the threat of tears.

“You make beautiful things, my love, such wonderous, extraordinary, _impossible_ things!” She shook him lightly, looking straight into his eyes. “And I know it must feel like you’re giving away pieces of your own happiness.”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“But you’re so selfless. You’ve been my strength for years, George Weasley, but it’s not just that. Now, you’re the strength of so many more. Every child who fled through Hogsmeade, every little boy who lost his older brother in that battle.”

He exhaled sharply.

“They step into your shop and remember that there’s more than fear, waiting for them out there. There are _fireworks_ in this world. There are things yet to be discovered. There’s light and happiness, and there are reasons to laugh. To dance.”

It was then that the tears did come to him, trailing silently down his cheeks. He had to close his eyes. He was wrapped up in her voice; collecting her words one by one as they fell from those perfect, scarred lips. He wanted to paint them across the bare, cracking walls of his heart in tones of shimmering silver and radiant gold.

“You were the one I ran to when my strength was fading. And you were always, always there. Time and time again, you’ve lent me your warmth, even when I knew you didn’t have it to spare. Georgie, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

“You’re strong,” she insisted, brushing his tears away with her tattooed fingers, “You always have been.”

He smiled faintly, pressing his cheek into her palm.

“And don’t worry,” she added, “If a Dementor breaks into the flat in the middle of the night, I promise I’ll keep you safe. I’ll send you and Freddie out after it, and the two of you can pester it right to death.”

He laughed, but she could hear the thickness of his tears beneath it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

For a time, she just held him. He leaned his head down onto her shoulder, and let himself sink into the comfort of her. He loved the feeling of her fingers running through his hair, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He always had. He tried to match his breathing with hers, that it might bring him some stillness. Oddly enough, it worked. And after a time, he sat up again.

“Alright,” he cleared his throat, brushing away the rest of his tears, “Hey, why aren’t we drinking?”

Silently, she mourned the end of that beautiful moment. It was so rare for him to show that kind of vulnerability, and she was always desperately afraid of mishandling it. But maybe he just needed to admit he’d lost his Patronus. Maybe he just needed someone to understand, and tell him it would be alright. She would follow his lead. And if it was time for the moment to end, then end it would.

She cast him a warm smile. “That’s right, we ought to be drinking, don’t you think? What have you found for us?” She craned her neck to look at the bottle of wine he’d set down beside them.

“I dunno,” he admitted, picking it back up, “But it looks old. It says Château on it, and I reckon since we’re in a Château…”

She took the bottle curiously, examining it for herself. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Georgie, this says Château Lafite Rothschild.”

“Yeah,” he pointed to the label. “Château, right there.”

She looked up at him, completely stunned. “Where did you find this?”

“It was down in the cellar,” he told her, a hint of defensiveness in his voice, “You told me to just grab something, what’s wrong with it?”

“Darling, this is the single most expensive wine in the entire world,” she relayed, transfixed by what she was holding.

“What?” he laughed, “How much does it cost?”

She stammered for a moment, before coming up with a figure. “32,000 Galleons.”

“What, for a case of it?”

“For a _bottle_!”

He laughed explosively. “You’re absolutely _joking_! That’s more than we paid for the shop!”

“I am not joking,” she said gravely, “I can’t believe we have this, you know this is one of the families they tried to marry me off to? I could’ve been Ophelia Belladonna Yaxley-Lestrange _Lafite_!”

“Well, then, we’re definitely not drinking it!” he announced decisively, trying to snatch the bottle away, “32,000 Galleons, Christ! You know, this is _just_ what I was afraid of, when you sent me down there.”

She jerked it back out of his reach, grinning wickedly. “No, I want to drink it!”

“Quit messing about, Ophelia, we can’t! I’ll go and find something else!”

She was laughing hard, trying to hold him at bay while she scrambled for her wand. He kept trying to grab the bottle, but only succeeded in falling on top of her. He crawled up to straddle her hips, pinning her beneath him on the rug.

He extended a hand, impatient. “Come on, give it here. I’m putting it back.”

“Get stuffed, it’s _mine_ , and I say we’re drinking it!”

She had finally succeeded in snatching her wand out from between the furs. She held the bottle up overhead, wand pointed threateningly at the neck. There was a mischievous kind of smile on her face, and for a moment, it distracted him entirely. She hadn’t given him that look since they were in school. It made him think of the night she got them into the Prefect’s Bathroom. But she was doing his head in with it, now. He wondered, briefly, if this is how he and Fred had made her feel, all the time.

“Hey, knock it off!” he commanded, making another swipe at the bottle, “We’re not going to—”

“I’ll smash it!” she threatened.

He tried again to snatch for it. “Don’t be _stupid_ , O!”

“Alright, then, I suppose it’s settled!” With a defiant flick of her wand, the cork rose with a mocking _pop_.

George blanched, arms falling limply to his sides. “Ophelia, I can’t believe you.”

She laughed. “Believe it!”

“Put it back in!”

She laughed, squirming out from under him. “You can’t _put it back in_ , stupid, it’s been exposed to the modern air!” She held the bottle under her nose, taking a deep inhale. It was absolutely divine.

“What do you mean modern air?”

“This was bottled in 1787,” she told him, pouring it into the glasses he’d brought, “Can’t you read?”

“17—” He slapped a palm to his forehead, “ _Christ_ , Ophelia.”

“You’re a _proper_ Lord, now,” she said, handing him his glass, “You’d better get used to it.”

They linked arms, and took their first, indulgent drinks of the exquisite wine. Ophelia visibly shuddered when it touched her tongue, eyes fluttering and falling closed.

“Oh my _god_ ,” she moaned, clinging desperately to the glass.

George shrugged. “Yeah, it’s alright. It’s wine, isn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes. “George, you’ve absolutely no culture at all.” To his complete and abject horror, she picked the bottle up again, and poured a splash out onto the lavish rug.

_“Ophelia, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”_ He snatched it away, setting it well out of her reach.

She cast him a sad smile, blinking up at him with an expression that was honest and unguarded. “For Freddie.”

_Oh, God damn you, Ophelia._ He exhaled sharply, softening all at once.

“Oh love,” he breathed, shaking his head, “You know he’d drink a _lot_ more than that.”

She squealed with delight as he picked the bottle up again, and added another splash. And then, for the first time since his death, they shared a laugh for Fred’s memory.

She threw her gaze upward, shouting so her voice echoed through the cavernous tower. “You hear that, Freddie? We love you, but that’s all you get!”

George cupped his hands around his mouth, following suit. “Wanker!”

She raised her glass high. “To Freddie!”

“To Freddie!”

They linked arms again, and emptied their glasses, before collapsing onto each other with laughter. Tears welled up in their eyes, but for the first time, the bitterness had a sweet note to it.

“God, I wish he were here with us,” she murmured.

He lifted her face towards him, looking deep into those violet eyes. “Yeah. Me, too.”

They lingered in Château Lestrange all weekend, wrapped up entirely in one another. For a few days, they lived beyond indulgently, and why shouldn’t they? They owned a castle. They ate lavishly, feet kicked up onto the table, and lounged in the Grand Salon. They drank champagne in the massive bathtub, and tackled the snow-blanketed hedge maze in the garden. They fucked on ever surface, including the grand, dining table, and drank 100-year-old wine straight from the bottle. They charmed empty sets of clothes in order to hold grand balls, set to a glam-rock score. (The winter dance they’d so pointlessly denied each other, in their youth.) All the while, Ophelia made certain they were dressed to the height of nobility, draped in furs and jewels and resplendent brocade.

They were happy. And Ophelia hoped that Rodolphus was turning in his grave.


	10. Dumb Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't figure out the best way to break up this next bit, so here: have a weird mishmash of nonsense.

They returned home to find an unwelcome gift waiting on their doorstep, courtesy of Rita Skeeter. She’d left them a copy of her new book, _Double Agent and Double Trouble: The Risks and Romance of Ophelia Lestrange_. The cover featured an artist’s rendering of the tattoos on her neck and chest, the sinister-looking raven stretching out below the title. She’d signed it for them, along with a delightful little handwritten message.

_To George and Ophelia -_

_I think you’re going to be a bestseller!_

_Rita Skeeter_

“Ah, she can get fucked!” George grumbled, winding up to hurl the book across the shop.

Ophelia snatched it from his hand before he could release it. “Don’t,” she said wearily, “We need to read it. We’ve put it off too long.” She toed at the stack of newspapers that had accompanied the book; a kind of protracted anthology of their press coverage.

He sighed in resignation. She was right, of course she was right. They’d sheltered themselves from it for long enough. It was time they knew.

And so, that night, they sat together at the kitchen table, and poured through it all. They started with the newspapers. The initial coverage had been, shockingly, impartial and factual.

***

Ophelia Lestrange Arrested at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes

Acting on a tip from Lucius Malfoy, himself a member of You-Know-Who’s inner circle, Ministry Aurors apprehended Ophelia Belladonna Yaxley Lestrange in Diagon Alley, early this morning. It is suspected that George Weasley, proprietor of the wildly popular joke shop Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, has been sheltering the known Death Eater since she very publicly avenged the death of his twin brother and business partner during the Battle of Hogwarts. Eyewitnesses report that Madame Lestrange used the Killing Curse on her own uncle, convicted Death Eater Rodolphus Lestrange, after he killed Fred Weasley on the battlefield.

But what would motivate Madame Lestrange to take such violent, vengeful action, in the name of the joke shop proprietor? Former schoolmates have provided wildly conflicting stories regarding the nature of this trio’s mysterious relationship. Some claim that the three were openly hostile towards one another, during their time at Hogwarts, and others suggest a potentially romantic past. Only time will tell, as we wait for this story to unfold.

In the meantime, Madame Lestrange has been remanded to Azkaban prison, where she will await her trial before the Wizengamot. Her father, Rabastan Lestrange, is currently serving his third sentence in the prison.

***

That particular article was accompanied by her mugshot, her frightened and tear-streaked face staring up in fear from the page.

That was how it had started: just a few paragraphs, three pages into the Daily Prophet. And from that point on, the coverage only became more biting, and sensationalized. Cruel speculation about George’s loyalties, wild conspiracy theories. The truth had come out about her _Fascinum Statimoris_ , and it seemed like everyone needed to weigh in on it. Debates ensued over an individual’s right to die, and if that right could reasonably and legally be stripped following the commission of a serious enough crime. They read through a damning interview with a very angry and hyperbolic Florian Fortescue, about the night she’d disarmed him on the street outside. And then came the trial, and George and Ophelia saw their own frantic faces splashed across the front page. George, screaming at Robards, hand outstretched for her wand. Ophelia, stumbling out of the cage and into his arms. Their kiss, over and over again, on a loop.

And then, after everything had been revealed at the trial, came the really nasty stuff. People picked apart every word George had uttered in that courtroom, every word Ophelia had. Think pieces and op-eds popped up about the morality of twin brothers sharing a lover, and grotesque speculation about the nature of Fred and George’s relationship with one another. At the same time, people seemed to be speaking out in defense of the trio, pointing to the long history of incestuous marriages that stitched the Wizarding World together. The comparison was not helpful, no matter how it had been intended. One of the brilliant, creative minds at the Daily Prophet coined the terms “Sacred Inter-breeding” vs. “Close Incest” as a shorthand to be used in the debate. In the end, it seemed as though the court of public opinion had decided that, since Fred had died, it didn’t really matter anymore. They had been curious children, and nothing more. At that, George finally announced that he needed a drink.

People wrote in to denounce the Wizengamot verdict, they submitted impotent threats against Ophelia’s life. Against Kingsley’s. And the Prophet published all of it. It was midnight by the time they’d worked their way through to the Skeeter book. And once they began, Ophelia decided that she needed a drink, too.

It was nothing but 300 pages of hastily-compiled gossip. It began with a roughly spackled-together account of Ophelia’s early childhood, taken from old letters, and half-remembered stories told by distant relations. Some translated poorly from French. And then it moved onto testimonials from their schoolmates, creating a glaringly inaccurate timeline for her relationship with the twins. Rita Skeeter took aim at Snape, and Dumbledore. Sirius. She disparaged Molly and Arthur for allowing their sons to both become involved with her. Questioned their parenting.

And then came the parts of the story that very few free, living people had seen, and she knew that the Malfoys had talked yet again. Charity Burbage, Death Eater raids. She couldn’t have forced it out of them with money, as they had far more than she could give. It could only have been a desperate, last-ditch effort to smear her, and save face themselves.

George and Ophelia grit their teeth, and read every word.

When they were through, they shoved the book and the newspapers into the back of the wardrobe, and buried them under stacks of clothes and shoes. Like so many other things in their lives, they thought it best acknowledged, processed, and then moved on from.

“I should’ve talked to her,” Ophelia announced bitterly, “Set the record straight while I still had the chance.”

“That’s rubbish,” George dismissed, “She’d have twisted everything you said up in knots, and published what she wanted, anyway. And this way, no one can ever point to you and claim that you did favors for Rita Skeeter.”

She had to admit, he had a point.

.

.

.

When they were ready, George and Ophelia took up their respective places in Diagon Alley. George hired more staff to help him run Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Ophelia started taking a much more visible role, over at Ollivander’s. Something like a true apprenticeship. The transition was not an easy one, and many defected to Gregorovitch. But Ollivander didn’t mind. And he took up a fierce defense of her, at every opportunity. And, gradually, he began to step back. She could see the exhaustion in him.

Her wands were, in Ollivander’s words, inimitable. In the beauty of their craftsmanship, in their grace and power. And in the way she matched them up so perfectly to the people who came into the shop. She could read people, he said, like no one he’d ever seen before. She attributed it to her years as a spy. She had to be able to size people up instantly, predict what they’d do, and how. He said she was selling herself short.

They fell into a routine. Not, perhaps, the one they’d dreamed of, as children. But it was alright. It was a life worth living. But there always felt as though there were something missing. And they knew that it would never, ever be replaced, no matter what.

At George’s insistence, their wedding was held at the Burrow. Ophelia fought him for ages, but finally agreed when it became clear that Molly had given her express permission. Everyone, herself included, wanted Fred to be near. And, true to his word, on the night before their wedding, Bill made sure that no one was throwing a moody, and everyone was proper nice to Ophelia.

The day would mark the first time in his life that George would see Ophelia wear white, and he would never see it again. She bore her tattoos proudly, hiding nothing. And when she smiled, he could see no preoccupation with her scar on her face.

Ollivander gave her away, that day; by then more of a father to her than Rabastan had ever been. And as a wedding gift, relinquished the keys to the wand shop.

Since Ophelia had agreed to have the wedding at the Burrow, George compromised on a honeymoon in France. His favorite part of the trip was trying out skiing in Tignes: some ridiculous Muggle thing where you slide down a snowy hill with long planks of wood on your feet. Ophelia tried it for a grand total of 15 minutes, and then spent the remainder of the time smoking and drinking in the chalet, wrapped in opulent furs. That, she liked.

Her favorite part had been the catacombs beneath Paris, where she could run her fingers along the smooth, bleached bones to try and catch a glimpse of what lay beyond. George clung to her the entire time. It felt, to him, a little like their childhood foray into Knockturn Alley. But, she _insisted_ they break into the catacombs in the dead of night, for the most immersive experience. That, he liked.

It took years for them to fill in the gaps for each other. George was able to coax the stories from her in strange fits and spurts: all of the things she had done with the Death Eaters, everything she’d kept from them during the war. It took even longer still for him to tell her about the time he had spent on the run. Those long, hard months where it had been only him and Fred. In the end, there were still memories he kept entirely to himself. She understood why, and so she did not press him.

After a few years, George bought Zonko’s, and opened a Hogsmeade location. He hired Ron to help run it, and the profits exploded. Diagon Alley was the money spinner during the summer and fall, Hogsmeade in the spring and winter. It was brilliant business strategy. It was around the same time that Ophelia took over running Ollivander’s, entirely by herself. She struggled with the business side of it for a while, having spent the first 20 years of her life with no concept whatsoever of money, but George helped keep her in the black. Eventually, she fell into the rhythm of it. He was so proud of her. And she never, ever changed the name. It would always be Ollivander’s, no matter who was running it. Best of all, she inherited a Hogsmeade branch, too.

After six blissful years of marriage, Ophelia Weasley was suddenly pregnant. Everyone was shocked. No one had _ever_ imagined her as a mother, least of all her. She was beyond terrified, initially labeling it a cruel trick of fate. It wasn’t as though they couldn’t support a child; they could’ve afforded 10 or more. She just didn’t trust herself. She didn’t trust the blood in her veins. Didn’t want to raise a child who would surely live his entire life stained by her own actions. But, when she saw how thrilled George was, she decided to give it her best effort. For him. Because she knew he’d be a wonderful father.

Fred Garrick Weasley (or Fred II, as he would come to enjoy being called) was born at the Burrow, in the spring of 2006. The same year as Harry and Ginny’s second, Albus, and Ron and Hermione’s first, Rose. Incidentally, it was also the precise month that Draco’s only son, Scorpius, came into the world. Ophelia was 27, the year he was born. And the moment she set eyes on her son, with his violet eyes and auburn hair, she knew that everything would be alright.

When Molly, Ginny, and Fleur finally let George into the room that day, he wept at the sight. Never had he been more in love with his wife than in that moment, when he saw her cradling their sleeping son; pale-faced and exhausted, but smiling. She had never looked so strong, or so beautiful.

“George,” she’d said, “Meet Fred.”

Ron lost five Galleons that day, betting Harry that the Lestrange black would beat out the Weasley red. After that, he bet him that Fred would wind up taller than his dad.

George and Ophelia’s son never wanted for anything. He lived a beautiful childhood, spent running back and forth between his parent’s shops. (And, of course, the Leaky Cauldron. By then owned and operated by Neville and Hannah Longbottom.) He understood how to make a wand before he could wield one himself. And every New Year’s, he stood on the roof of Ollivander’s with his mother to watch his father and uncle Ron set off fireworks.

Fred II was precocious and outspoken, but unfailingly kind. As compassionate as his father, and as fierce as his mother. He was raised with all of the money that George never had, and all of the love that Ophelia had been denied. He was raised on stories of the man for whom he had been named, seeing his face smiling up at him from Chocolate Frog cards, and laughing proudly atop the mantlepiece. (His mother had a Chocolate Frog card, as well, but she was _definitely_ not smiling in hers. He’d only ever seen her smile for two things: George, and Fred.)

Fred II knew that his parents were war heroes. His mother had an Order of Merlin, First Class, and that was particularly exciting. He understood that his parents had earned the conspicuous scars on their faces by staying brave when it was most frightening, and that’s why they weren’t ashamed of them. They held hands a lot, which wasn’t something he really saw his aunts and uncles do. And his mum always wanted his dad to lace up her corsets for her, which he thought was funny, because he’d seen her do it herself with magic loads of times. But his dad always did it anyway. And so, he knew they loved each other.

Most importantly, Fred II felt safe.

With each year that passed, the Fred Weasley in the photographs looked younger and younger. Sometimes, George and Ophelia Weasley still felt like lost, damaged kids. Sometimes, they still stayed up all night, thinking of Fred. Wishing he was there with them, painfully aware of the empty space between them. But, somehow, (and even they weren’t entirely sure how) they got through it. They loved each other madly, took care of each other. And then, one day, they took a look around at the life they’d built for themselves, and realized that they were smiling.


	11. Bone-Setters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, yourself, and your father don't know so,  
> But in your own ways,  
> You're really both bone-setters.  
> Thank you for mending me, babies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if any of you have read Cursed Child, but *holy shit* none of these chucklefucks had any business reproducing. Irresponsible as all hell. ESPECIALLY George and Ophelia. So, good job, them.

19 Years Later

Fred II was eleven years old when he found the dusty pile of old newspapers hidden in his parents’ wardrobe. And, along with it, the faded copy of _Double Agent and Double Trouble: The Risks and Romance of Ophelia Lestrange._ His parents were working, and he was meant to be reading through his Standard Book of Spells, in preparation for his upcoming school year. But this was _much_ more interesting reading, made all the more interesting by the fact that he, clearly, was _not_ meant to know about it. He was, after all, the child of such beautiful thieves.

There were things in there about his mum and dad and Uncle Fred, when they were kids together. Things about his mother’s cousin Draco, whom he’d never met before. Stories of his maternal grandparents, who he thought were both dead. Stories of his mother going to Azkaban, and being a favorite of the Dark Lord Voldemort, who started the war with his uncle Harry. Explanations for why nobody else in the world looked like her, with all of her tattoos and that strange charm in her nose. He wasn’t disturbed by what he read, rather confused. It didn’t make sense to him. He never knew that people had said and thought such awful things about his parents, especially his mum. It was so different from the way his aunts and uncles treated them. So different from his own conception.

He decided he’d talk with them about it. Give them a chance to tell the story their own way, before he jumped to conclusions. He decided that would be a very mature thing to do.

That night, he went to his mother as she shaped wands in the sitting room.

“Mum?”

“ _Oui, mon cœur_?”

“Were… ? Hmm…” He pondered for a moment, looking so much like a tiny version of George that it brought a smile to her face.

“ _Qu'est-ce que c'est, mon chéri_? What’s bothering you, tonight?”

“Were you and Uncle Freddie in love with each other?”

Ophelia’s knife slipped, taking a gouge out of her thumb.

“Whoa!” George called, popping his head out from the kitchen, “Where on earth did you get an idea like that?”

They had been expecting to hear something about going off to Hogwarts for the first time, or maybe worries about the sorting ceremony. Never had they imagined they’d hear _that_.

Fred shrugged, avoiding eye contact with his parents. “I read it.”

“Read it where?” Ophelia asked, knowing full well what the answer was.

His reply was little more than a mumble. “Bunch of newspapers, and this book…”

“God _dammit_ , Fred!” she nearly shouted, tossing the wand down. She hadn’t hardened the beautiful, one-of-a-kind Ash piece yet, and it snapped in two, frustrating her even further. “That was extremely disrespectful, going through our things like that! That’s mum and dad’s private stuff! How much of it did you read?”

He shrugged again.

“ _Dîtes-moi! Maintenant!”_

“Just the bits that had your names.”

She cast him an unimpressed look. “Fred, that was all of it, and you know that!”

“No!” he defended. And then, in a softer voice, “I mainly just _flipped through_ the book.”

Ophelia looked to her husband expectantly. “Care to jump in, here?”

“Freddie,” he admonished, stepping into the sitting room, “What were you thinking?”

“I was only looking for my jumper, to pack it for school, and I saw—”

Ophelia didn’t believe it for an instant. “Fred Weasley, when has your jumper _ever_ been on the floor, all the way at the back of mum and dad’s wardrobe?”

“You’re just trying to change the subject!” he argued, quite disarmingly.

At that, George took his wife by the hand, pulling her to her feet. “Alright, that’s enough! Freddie, you shouldn’t have done this. You mum’s right, that was well disrespectful.”

He offered a cursory, “Sorry,” but Ophelia knew him, and his father, well enough to see right through it. George, thankfully, seemed equally unconvinced.

“Yeah, no sir. You sit right here,” he pointed to the couch, “And think up a more sincere apology. The two of us are gonna go have a talk, and then we’re gonna come back out here and talk to you. Clear?”

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, flopping down onto the couch with his arms crossed.

“No. I mean… I dunno, yet. I haven’t decided. Suppose it depends on whether or not I believe your next apology.”

As George and Ophelia retreated to their bedroom, George caught sight of Freddie reaching for the wand-making materials.

“Oi!” he scolded, and his son guiltily retracted his hand. “Don’t touch your mum’s stuff! Are you trying to blow your hand off?”

He crossed his arms again, falling against the back of the couch in a huff. This hadn’t gone at _all_ how he’d pictured it.

When the door was shut behind them, Ophelia had the presence of mind to cast _Muffliato_. Fred had developed his father’s penchant for eavesdropping, and that was the last thing they needed.

George strode over to the wardrobe, shoving the clothes aside. “That little bugger,” he grumbled, inspecting the disarray of newspapers on the floor.

“What do you expect?” Ophelia nearly snapped, “He’s _our son_ , isn’t he?”

He laughed softly. “Fred’s son, more like.”

“George, none of this is funny!”

He took a deep, stilling breath, turning to face his wife. “I know you’re angry, and that’s fair. But this is probably the best timing we could’ve hoped for.”

She gaped at him. “Are you _mad_?”

“No, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. He was gonna find out someday, O,” he said, “About all of it. People remember, people have the books. You know how many copies she sold. And if he didn’t get his hands on ours, someone would’ve given it to him at school. What would we have done, then?”

Ophelia shook her head indignantly. He was making perfect sense, but she was too angry to hear it.

“You remember what it was like for you, growing up. With your parents.”

“Of course, I do!” she bristled, “But there’s hardly a comparison to be drawn betw—”

“What got you through it?” he interrupted.

She stammered for a moment, before answering, “You! You and Fred!”

He shook his head. “No, you’re not giving yourself enough credit. What got you through was being ready. Knowing how people would try and come at you, and having a response for everything. You remember the Quidditch World Cup? All the things you said to me, right in the start?”

“It’s different,” she said lamely.

“It’s really not, Ophelia,” he sighed, “I won’t send him off to school, to be around kids who know more about us than he does.”

“He shouldn’t have been going through our stuff,” she argued, and he had the strange realization that Freddie had been right. She was hell-bent on changing the subject.

“I know that,” he conceded, “But that’s done. So, how are we going to handle it?”

She crossed the room to sit on the bed, avoiding his gaze. All at once, she felt like that broken, damaged kid, again. “What’s your point, then? Hand him the book, tell him to have at it?”

“You know that’s not my point,” he exhaled, sitting down beside her. “Point is, he needs to hear it from us. Now. Before he hears it from the likes of Scorpius Malfoy, and starts to resent us for not telling him ourselves.”

“I wanted him to be older,” she protested weakly.

“In a perfect world, we could wait as long as we wanted,” he said, putting an arm around his wife, “But we don’t have that luxury, darling. It’s gotta happen now.”

She heaved a deep sigh, leaning her head down onto his shoulder. “He’s so much like him, Georgie.” Only a Fred Weasley would’ve pulled a sneaky little thing like that, and then had the audacity to just admit to it, unprompted. Only a Fred Weasley would’ve expected that to go well.

“Yeah.” George laughed softly. “He so much like _all_ of us. God, our poor mum. I dunno how she managed.”

“War was so much easier than this.”

“Yeah, no kidding. And we fucked a lot more.”

“Well,” she laughed weakly, “If we survive this conversation, I’ll make you forget your own name tonight, Mr. Weasley.”

He laughed lustily, nipping at her ear.

“But if you say the phrase ‘ _meat triangle’_ to our son, at any point in the forthcoming, I swear to god, I’m leaving you.”

They emerged from their bedroom to find Fred sitting on the couch, arms crossed, right as they’d left him. They both knew there was no way he’d been there the entire time. He had likely been bouncing around the living room, touching the wand knives, and pressing his ear to the door. But they’d learned to pick their battles.

“Alright. Now, do you have something you’d like to say to us?” George asked, as they stood in front of him.

Their son looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” he said in a small voice, “I wasn’t looking for my jumper, I was cross because you were making me do schoolwork, so I was being nosy.”

His mother nodded severely. “That’s much better. Thank you.” George and Ophelia sat down either side of their son, and he relaxed a little.

“Now are you going to answer my question?” he asked, sounding so much like his mother that George had to swallow the urge to laugh.

“Not just yet,” Ophelia said, “First of all, you need to understand that the things you read today, in those newspapers, and especially in that book, were written by people who didn’t know what they were talking about.”

“Right,” George confirmed, “People who didn’t know us, and didn’t like us. They didn’t care about telling the truth, they were just trying to be hurtful, and stir up trouble.”

He nodded, brow knitted together.

Ophelia took a deep breath. “That being said, it’s true that there are things that your father and I haven’t told you about. So… what questions do you have?”

“Were you and Uncle Freddie in love with each other?” he pressed, impatiently, “In that book, it says he kissed you.”

George sighed. “Yes, that’s true. Both your Uncle Freddie and I loved your mum very, very much. And she loved the both of us.”

He screwed up his face, trying to make sense of it. He’d never heard of a thing like that, before. “But… Now you love dad, right?”

“I’ve always loved your father,” she reassured him, “And I’ll always love your Uncle Fred. Just like I’ll always love you. Those are things that will never, ever change.”

He shook his head. “But that doesn’t make sense. You can’t be in love with two people, you have to pick one.”

Ophelia was floundering a little, George could see it.

“It’s absolutely possible to be in love with two people, Fred. It’s just not how most people feel. Maybe it’s because your uncle and I were identical, so it sort of always felt like we were two halves of one whole person. But we didn’t ever mind that your mum was in love with the both of us, because we both loved her right back.”

“Your Uncle Freddie’s the one who bought this ring, you know,” Ophelia revealed, showing him her tattooed hand, “Just before he died. And then your dad’s the one who gave it to me.”

“Mmm-hmm,” George nodded, “Right downstairs, in the shop.”

Fred had to admit, that was sweet.

“I had a very sad, very frightening childhood, my darling,” his mother said, running her hand through his hair, “That’s not something I’ve ever really told you about. And your dad and his brother were the only two people who treated me kindly. They were the only friends I ever picked for myself.”

He looked up at his mother in confusion. “You weren’t allowed to pick your own friends?”

“No. The Malfoys were very, very strict with me, and they didn’t like me spending time with your dad and uncle. They wanted me to marry a rich, French boy, instead.”

“Do you know what she used to do?” George smiled wryly. “She would steal her cousin Draco’s Nimbus 2001 in the middle of the night and fly over to grandma and grandpa’s house, to see us.”

Fred beamed up at his mother. “ _You_ did? Really?”

She nodded proudly. “I’d climb right in the upstairs window and pester them until the sun came up.”

“But you _hate_ flying!” he exclaimed.

“That is entirely your father’s fault,” she divulged.

“Dad!” he scolded, a hint of awe to be heard in his voice, “What did you do?”

“He stole uncle Harry’s broom and flew me all the way up in the air, over the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. And then he kept me there until I opened my eyes and looked down at Uncle Freddie. When I did, he dove straight for the ground. I thought we were going to crash into him and die.”

He seemed to like that, giggling up at his father. George and Ophelia exchanged wistful smiles, at the memory. _Oh my god_ , she realized, _that was more than two decades ago. When did we get so old?_

“Yeah,” George said, looking deep into his wife’s eyes, “We had some really good times together, me and your mum and Uncle Fred.”

Ophelia ran her fingers through her son’s auburn hair. “Everything I did, during the war, I did for them, darling. Because I loved them with all of my heart, and I’d do anything to keep them safe.”

“It said you were a spy,” he tentatively offered.

“That’s true,” his father confirmed, “And she was the best. She saved your uncle Harry’s life more than once. Saved Mr. Ollivander, and Mrs. Scamander. Your mum saved us all.”

“How?” he asked, looking between them, “What did you do?”

“Well… You know what this is, darling,” Ophelia began, extending her left arm and pointing to the red tattoo.

“The Dark Mark,” he answered confidently, peering at it with wide eyes.

“That’s right. It’s the mark that Lord Voldemort put on only his most loyal followers. My father had him put it on me when I was 16 years old.”

“Your dad made you do that?” he asked, bewildered by the concept.

“He was an evil man,” she said, “And he wanted me to be evil, too. But I knew I had two choices: I could either die fighting for Voldemort, or die fighting Voldemort. And because I loved your dad and your uncle so much, I decided I would fight him. So, I tricked the Death Eaters into thinking that I was one of them, and then told your grandpa and Mr. Shacklebolt everything they were doing. And then they would give me fake information to pass along to Voldemort, so he never knew where uncle Harry was, or how we were planning to defeat him.”

“That’s really brave,” Fred murmured, his voice soft and reverent, “I dunno if I could ever be that brave.”

She reassured him, “You would, _mon chéri_.”

“We’re always braver than we expect, I think,” George added, “Especially when it comes to protecting the people we love.”

“I had to do a lot of terrible things, my darling,” Ophelia said softly, “A lot of things I regret.”

“Like what?” he asked earnestly.

Ophelia looked over at her husband, so hesitant.

“He’s going to hear it from someone at school, love,” he said, gentle but certain.

“I dunno why I asked,” Fred suddenly blurted, “I already know. You cast the Dark Mark a lot, and Voldemort made you kill a Hogwarts professor.”

She pressed her eyes shut, nodding slowly. _He should’ve heard it from me, first_ , she thought bitterly. _Not read it in Rita Skeeter’s blasted book_. “That’s exactly right. The Hogwarts professor, her name was Charity Burbage, she was being tortured. Voldemort had been torturing her for weeks, and he was going to keep on torturing her until she died a horrible, frightening, painful death. There was nothing that I, or anyone else, could’ve done to stop him. So, yes, Freddie. I killed her. To put an end to her pain.”

He reached out and placed a hand over his mother’s.

“And when the war was over, people didn’t understand that I’d been fighting for the right side, the entire time. So the Aurors came and arrested me.”

“Right there—” George pointed towards the record player, still standing in the corner, “In this very room.”

“I was in Azkaban prison for 29 days,” she said, “Back when they still had Dementors guarding it. Your father came to visit me there, once. To tell me that everything was going to be alright.”

“We’d been fighting for her, with the Ministry,” George told him, “Me, your grandpa, uncle Harry, the whole lot of us. Your mother had saved us all, so it was time for us to come together and save her.”

“And then, at the trial—”

“I know!” Fred interrupted, looking up at his father in awe, “I read the transcript, I read the things you and everyone else said about mum. And I saw the pictures, too, in the papers.”

He’d been amazed by the images of his father leaping over the barrier in the courtroom, and screaming at the guards to let his mother out of that cage. He’d watched her stumble out into his arms, over and over again, watched him kiss her and wrap her in his coat to hurry her away from the crowd and the noise. They’d both looked so young, in those pictures. They were, he supposed. His mother had been 19 years old, his father had been 20. He had a ponytail, which Fred thought was fantastically stylish. He wished he could’ve known his parents, when they were kids. When they were young and wild. It would’ve been brilliantly good fun, running around with the two of them and Uncle Freddie.

After a long, pensive silence, Fred finally spoke again. “You never told me all that stuff about how he died.”

Ophelia nodded, steeling herself against this part of the conversation. “What stuff, darling?”

He shrugged, rather unconvincingly.

“ _Dîtes-moi, mon cœur_ , you’re not in trouble.”

“It said that mum’s uncle, Rodol—Rol—”

“Rodolphus,” she corrected.

Fred nodded. “Right. It said that he killed Uncle Fred, and then…” he hesitated, “And then you killed him.”

His mother nodded severely. “That’s true. During the battle at Hogwarts, your uncle and I were fighting together, when Rodolphus Lestrange tried to kill me. But the tattoos he and my father put on me protected me.” She pointed to her face. “This is where the curse hit me. And I was scared, so I left Uncle Fred, ran over to your father, and then Rodolphus killed him.”

“And then you killed Rodolphus,” he finished, seemingly fixated on that detail. And why wouldn’t he be? It was a horrifying thing to imagine. Your mother, the murderer.

Your mother, who killed her own blood.

“We were in the middle of a battle, Freddie,” George said gently, “Your mum did what she had to do.”

“I think I would’ve done that, too,” he admitted strangely, “I think I would’ve killed the man who killed Uncle Fred.”

“I’d be careful thinking like that, if I were you,” his father heeded, “Don’t be so eager to deal out death and judgment. The weight of taking a life is heavier than you may think.”

Ophelia had to close her eyes, because she was beginning to cry. She could see her lover’s face, pale and blood-streaked and half-smiling; his long, red hair running through her fingers as she cradled him in her lap. She could see Rodolphus squirming beneath her bootheel. She could see George’s hand, outstretched towards her. Hear his breathless screams. Her heart pounded faster, she could feel herself beginning to shake. The tears were coming, now, there was no stopping it. _You’re on the sofa in your own home_ , she told herself, _you’re with your husband, and your son, and you’re safe._

“Mum?”

She opened her eyes, blinking down at Fred. He was looking up at her with wide, glassy, fearful eyes.

She placed a hand on his cheek. “Don’t worry, my darling. _C'est juste… Très difficile._ ”

He nodded, reaching up to brush the tears from her face. “ _Je comprends_.”

She took his hand, pressing her lips to his palm. Who would’ve expected that Ophelia Lestrange had the capacity to create something so perfect and beautiful?

Fred II watched in silent concern as his mother’s gaze drifted off, across the room. Out the living room window, across the street. Or further, off to where the sun had set, or maybe even past that. Back in her life. And then she got that look in her eyes that Fred had only seen a few times before. Something like remembering and dreading, all at once.

She looked like that on dad’s birthday, sometimes. And always, always on May 2nd.

“It’s alright, mum,” he whispered, “ _Je peux être fort pour toi_.”

“ _Je sais, mon cœur. Merci.”_

“Point is, Freddie,” George said gently, “You need to know about this stuff, before you go to school.”

Ophelia nodded, brushing the tears from her scarred face.

“Listen, when your Uncle Fred and I first met your mum, we were well mean to her,” he explained, “Not silly stuff, like the way I tease her now—”

“Like when you say that she’s the world’s spookiest paint-by-numbers?” he interjected, a cautious smile on his face.

George laughed explosively at his own joke, and then quickly cleared his throat, tamping it back down. “Right. Not like that. We were _mean_. We’d chase her around and chuck stuff at her, start nasty rumors—”

“Call me names,” Ophelia reminded him, unable to resist the smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Right,” George nodded, going a bit red as he avoided his wife’s gaze, “We judged her for what her parents did, before we ever took the time to get to know her. And even though we were awful towards her, your mum did a good thing for us, and probably saved our lives when the Death Eaters attacked the Quidditch World Cup. After that, she set us straight, gave us another shot, and we were the best of friends from then on.”

Fred smiled up at his parents. He liked this part of the story; it was the most familiar thing to him. “That was well good of you, mum,” he praised.

It brought a faint smile to her face, hearing a compliment like that from her son. “The point is, my darling, there’s a good chance that people at Hogwarts will try and wind you up about us. About the things we did, or the lies printed in that bloody book.”

Fred had to swallow the urge to giggle. His dad swore all the time, in front of him, but his mum _never_ did, not in English, anyway. But he knew this was a serious conversation, and giggling would not be appropriate.

“So, you’ve gotta remember to do what your mum did, yeah?” George coaxed, “Because you don’t have to pay for the things we did, and if people come at you, it’s because _their parents_ don’t like _us_. It’s got nothing to do with you, and who you are.”

He nodded, brow knitting in a very George-esque expression of concentration. “Can I tell people the truth?”

“Of course, my darling,” Ophelia said, running her fingers through his hair, “Tell them the truth, tell them your opinion of it. That’s what I always did. Just know that not everyone will be ready to hear it. But the ones who do listen—” She looked up at her husband, then, smiling wistfully. “They’re worth the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sort of conversation that Harry should've had with Albus, before he sent him off to Hogwarts. It would've spared that kid quite the complex.


	12. The Young Dudes

A few days later, Ophelia Weasley met her nephew Scorpius for the first time. She was settled in between the shelves at Ollivander’s, pouring through her remaining inventory as the summer neared its end. Her quill scratched across the pages of her dusty ledger as she compiled a list of materials she needed to restock. Which woods to gather this fall, which cores were running low. Perhaps this would be the season she’d finally get around to experimenting with Thestral hair…

Fred II was bouncing around the front room, singing quietly to himself. He was playing with his new wand; something he was _only_ allowed to do inside Ollivander’s (far too many explosives, over at dad’s), and _only_ when mum didn’t have customers.

She could hear him mumbling, “ _Television man is crazy, saying we’re juvenile delinquent wrecks_ ,” and it brought a smile to her face. “ _Oh man, I need T.V., but I’ve got T. Rex._ ”

Just when she though he’d lost interest, he nearly shouted, “ _All the young dudes! Carry the news_!”

She had to stifle a laugh, nearly dropping her heavy tome in the process.

After a moment, his voice faded again, and everything got eerily quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made alarm bells go off in her head.

And then she heard him say, “ _Wingardium Leviosa.”_ Something shattered. “Uh-oh.”

“Fred Garrick Weasley!” she called out, “You had better not blow up my shop!!”

“I’m not!” he insisted, but she could hear the shock in his voice at having been caught.

With a blind wave of her wand, whatever it was that had broken was fixed.

“Thanks, mum!”

“Mmm-hmm.”

After a beat, she heard it again, but much quieter. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!”

She rolled her eyes. At least this meant he was reading his spellbook, like he was supposed to be doing.

Just then, the rusty bell above the door rang.

“Hi!” Fred greeted cheerfully, “ _Mum_!”

Ophelia stepped out from between the shelves, and was stunned to find Astoria Malfoy standing at her counter, one arm around her son.

She cast them a kind and knowing smile, closing her ledger. “I wondered when I’d be seeing you, Mr. Malfoy.”

Astoria gave her a polite nod. “Ophelia. Draco sends his regrets, but he’s tied up at the Ministry, today.”

She returned the nod. “Of course.”

Fred hopped down from the counter, extending a hand out to the boy. “I’m Fred II!”

He glanced up at his mother, before cautiously taking Fred’s hand. “Scorpius Malfoy.”

“I know!” he said brightly, “We’ve never met before, but I’m your cousin!”

Scorpius looked the much taller boy up and down, a little uncertain. “I know.”

Fred, unfazed, continued chattering away. “I’m starting at Hogwarts this year, too! You’ll be in Slytherin, I reckon, and there’s a chance I might be, too. Y’know. Born half-and-half, and all that. So, we could be bunkmates!”

Ophelia touched her son lightly on the shoulder. “Freddie, go and tell your father to make you some lunch.”

“Why?” he whined. He could sense that something very interesting and dramatic was about to happen, and he simply refused to leave without a fight. “I can make my own lunch, later!”

“ _Fred_.”

“Alright, alright.” He pocketed his wand, and strode for the door.

“Ah-ah-ah!” she scolded, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, “ _Où penses-tu aller avec ça_ , _Monsieur_?”

With a sour face, he reluctantly placed the wand in his mother’s outstretched hand, and then made his way back across the busy street.

“He’s so much like his father,” Ophelia remarked, watching to make sure he actually went inside.

Astoria cast her a weary, empathetic smile. “I know what that’s like.”

Satisfied that Fred had done what he was told, she knelt down in front of her nephew. It was like looking straight through to the past, with how much he resembled his father. The same white-blonde hair, the same pointed chin. The only difference were his eyes. Not cold and cruel, like Draco’s, rather wide and curious. Green, like his mother’s.

“Hello, Scorpius,” she greeted softly, “We’ve never met, but I’m your aunt, Ophelia.”

“I know,” he said, “Dad told me. He talks about you a lot, when he thinks I can’t hear him.”

“Scorpius,” his mother chided gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” Ophelia reassured her. “I’m guessing you’re here for a wand, is that right?”

“Yeah!” He nodded enthusiastically, face lighting up with excitement.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I happen to have more wands than I know what to do with. They’re just cluttering this place up terribly.”

He laughed at the joke, and that made her happy.

“Here,” she coaxed, “Let me see your hand.”

He offered out his left, which interested her. She took it in her own, spreading his fingers wide to look at his palm. What jumped out at her first was the conflict in him. The lines all seemed to be arguing with one another, disagreeing entirely over who this boy was. But there was kindness, too. Guarded compassion, and quiet, observant understanding.

“My dad has a tattoo like that,” Scorpius remarked, looking at her forearm.

Despite the naïve way he’d framed the observation, she knew full well that he understood what it was. He just needed to talk about it, and didn’t know how. This time, Astoria kept silent, simply watching and listening with her fingers pressed tightly to her drawn lips.

Ophelia nodded. “That he does. He and I are the only two people who do, anymore.”

“He keeps his covered up all the time,” he announced, “Even around me. But I’ve seen it before.”

“I don’t like to cover mine,” she told him, “It reminds me that I was a warrior, once. I wouldn’t have been able to help destroy Voldemort, if I didn’t have this Mark. And, even though the fight is over now, I don’t think we should ever let ourselves forget the past. Otherwise, we may end up repeating it.” And then, after a pause, she added, “I also have many, many more tattoos than your father. So, there’s no point in me trying to cover them.”

“Dad says you were a spy, during the war.”

“Right again,” she confirmed. At this point, she was no longer studying his lines, just pretending to. But she wanted to give him space to talk.

“I live in your old room, you know,” he said, pivoting quite abruptly, “The one on the third floor of the East wing.”

Ophelia cast him a smile. “Isn’t it just awful how the sun shines right on your face, first thing in the morning?”

He returned her smile. “Yeah, that drives me mad!”

“I never, ever remembered to close the curtains, before I went to bed.”

“I don’t either.”

She switched his hands, and the first thing she noticed was steadily growing bravery. She wondered, fleetingly, if he’d be in Gryffindor. That would rile Draco up terribly, she thought. What fun that would be. To look at his lines, it seemed that little Scorpius had love in his future, from someplace quite unexpected, and that seemed to be where the conflict resolved. But he’d have a long life, lived fully.

“Curious,” she remarked, “Very curious.”

“What does it say?” he asked, peering over to see what she was seeing.

“I can’t tell you,” she said, as though it were an exciting secret, “It’s not my place. But what I can do is fetch your wand.”

She stood, then, and went to her shelves. There were three she had in mind. A 12-inch Hawthorn and Unicorn, a 12 ½ inch Ash and Unicorn, and a 13-inch Apple and Phoenix.

When he tried them out, she did as Ollivander had done for her, years ago, and saved the best for last. Drawing out her own suspense. She knew which wand was his, the moment he stepped into her shop, and her instincts proved correct: Apple and Phoenix it would be. It was the tool of a gifted little boy who would be long-lived and well-loved, and who would never cast a Dark spell in his life. He was delighted. His mother was delighted.

“The wand chooses the wizard,” she told him, “And I think it’s chosen a great one.”

When Astoria reached into her bag to pay, Ophelia stopped her.

“Don’t,” she said gently, placing a hand on hers, “Let me give my nephew a gift.”

She hesitated, an uncertain expression crossing her features. “Draco won’t stand for it.”

“Then he can come and talk to me about it.”

“Alright.” She sighed deeply, nodding in understanding. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said, looking straight into her eyes, “You’re family.”

“I hope I get to see you again,” Scorpius said, clutching at his new wand with both hands. After a beat, he added a tentative, “Aunt Ophelia.”

Ophelia knelt before her nephew once more, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I hope that too, my dear.”

And then, to her great surprise, he threw his arms around her. “I think my dad’s sorry,” he whispered, so softly that only she could hear it.

That gave her pause. “What?”

“I think he’s sorry for whatever he did to make you so angry with him.”

“Come on, darling,” his mother coaxed, “We’ve a lot more to do, today.”

Ophelia was stunned into silence, as she watched the pair retreat towards the door.

“Thanks, Aunt Ophelia!” Scorpius cried, waving over his shoulder as they stepped out the door.

She straightened up, returning his wave in a kind of daze. And then, as soon as they were out on the street again, he released his mother’s hand, and began shouting, “Dad! Look what Aunt Ophelia gave me!”

Her heart all but stopped in her chest, as she watched Draco Malfoy step in front of the wide window. He was beaming with pride, as he dropped to one knee before his son.

His voice was muffled slightly, through the glass, and drowned out by the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. But she could just make out, “That’s wonderful, kiddo! What’s it made of?”

He had aged. His hair had lost some of its platinum shine, a hint of stubble scraped along his knife-edge jaw. After all, it had been 19 years since she’d last seen him. 19 years since she’d heard his voice.

And then, he looked up. He looked straight through the window, those piercing blue eyes meeting hers.

( _She rent her arm from George’s grip. “_ Coward _!!”_

_Scrambling out into the gulf, she bent down and picked up a piece of rubble the size of a fist, hurling it at her cousin._

_Both halves of the crowd gasped as it hit him squarely in the back of the head, causing him to stumble. A few Death Eaters laughed. He looked back, eyes swimming with tears, and his gaze fell to her. She watched as the remaining light in his face seemed to instantly extinguish. He gave her a pleading look, gathering his brow._

_She was unmoved. Furious, she leapt forward and screamed, “_ YOU FUCKING COWARD! _”)_

Ophelia just blinked at him, watching the smile fade from his face, watching his brow gather. Scorpius was tugging at his sleeve, Astoria trying to usher the pair along through their errands, but he didn’t seem to hear any of it. The moment belonged to them, and them alone.

He gave her a slight nod, nearly imperceptible. But she knew him well enough to see it. She returned the gesture, blinking hard. And with that, he took his wife’s hand, put an arm around his son’s shoulders, and continued on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's one thing Ophelia won't tolerate, it's a child being made to pay for the sins of their parents.


	13. Perfect Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a perfect day.  
> You made me forget myself.  
> I thought I was someone else.   
> Someone good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fred Garrick Weasley, you were named after the two bravest men I've ever known. Thank god they had normal human names." lol

On September 1, 2017, George Weasley drove his family to King’s Cross Station in his Muggle car, to see Fred II off to Hogwarts for the first time. Ophelia had fought him endlessly, on the purchase of that “infernal contraption” (as she _exclusively_ referred to it), but he had been encouraged substantially in the endeavor by Ron and Arthur. It possessed no magical enhancement whatsoever, and took him ages to learn to operate. To his wife’s great dismay, he drove just like he flew: recklessly.

Ophelia walked with her arm around her son’s shoulders, while George pushed the trolley with all of his things. She couldn’t help but feel a distinct tightening in her chest, the closer they drew to the barrier. All of a sudden, she didn’t want to let her son out of her sight. She became entirely preoccupied by what had happened the last time a Fred Weasley set foot inside Hogwarts. But she could hear him in her ear, as though he were standing right beside her. _Loosen your corset laces, Princess._

Fred II was looking up at his mother, pensive and silent. She was wearing Uncle Fred’s pocket watch, as usual. And, for the first time in his life, he realized the importance behind that particular routine of hers. But her brown leather corset and long skirt didn’t exactly blend in at King’s Cross, nor did her very visible tattoos. And people were staring.

“Can’t you wear something normal, around the Muggles?” he asked in a whisper, glancing around nervously.

“Oi!” George poked him in the ear, “You’ve got the single coolest mum on the planet, what are you on about?”

Fred stuck his tongue out at his father.

“And anyway, you’re too young to be embarrassed by your mum. Give us another two years, before you start in with all that.”

“It doesn’t matter what people think about my clothes, or my tattoos,” she calmly explained, “I’m proud of who I am, and I’m not hurting anyone.”

He shrugged. “I guess so.” He abruptly broke free from her grasp, stepping over to elbow his father out of the way. “I can push it.”

With an amused laugh, George stepped aside, and let his son take over managing the trolley.

“Were we ever that little?” he whispered, slipping his hand into Ophelia’s.

She shook her head, marveling at her son. “We can’t have been.”

“Oi!” someone shouted, from across the crowded station.

George and Ophelia looked around for a moment, before setting eyes on Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny, along with all of their children.

“Look, darling—” Ophelia pointed, “There’s all your cousins.”

Ron, looking very much like Arthur Weasley, led the charge across the platform, dragging everyone along behind him. “Bloody good thing you lot are so tall, isn’t it?” he remarked, “Easy to spot in a crowd. You alright, O?”

George grimaced. “The answer’s still ‘no’ on that, Ron.”

He gave his brother a dismissive wave. “Whatever. Shall we? Oh, damn, they’re already off.”

Freddie, James and Al were whipping their trollies dangerously through the packed station. Lily was sitting atop James’ trunk, Hugo on Fred’s, and they were both screeching with delight to be along for the ride. Rose, ever the daughter of Hermione Granger, remained dutifully by her parents’ side.

“Hey!” Ginny shouted after them, “Knock it off!”

All at once, the three boys screeched to a halt, exchanging guilty smiles.

The family walked together, to the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. James, by now quite the expert on the process, sped right through. Fred followed immediately in his cousin’s wake, entirely unafraid.

George threw his arms up, sputtering in disbelief. “Well, then! There’s a singularly important milestone in the life of our child, come and gone!”

Ophelia linked her arm with his, laughing proudly. “Taste your own medicine, my darling, and despair.”

They followed their son through the barrier to find him whispering conspiratorially with James. All around them, families were saying goodbye to their children. George and Ophelia recognized a lot of faces. There were more than a few wary, disdainful looks cast their direction. Protective arms wrapped around their children’s shoulders. Freddie didn’t seem to notice, and they couldn’t decide if that was good or not. Perhaps it was something he should’ve witnessed.

“You’re not rid of us yet, you know,” Ophelia reminded her son, as they stepped up beside him, “Come over here and say goodbye to your mum and dad properly.”

They knelt before him, as the rest of the family came through the barrier to join the chaos.

“Have you got everything you need?” his mother asked, straightening his hair. “Books? Clothes? _Wand_?” The anxiety of sending him off was thumping uncomfortably in her chest. She could all but feel her lover jabbing his finger into her cheek. _You’re being annoying, knock it off_.

“I’ve got everything,” he patiently reassured her.

“You write us tonight, to tell us your house,” his father grinned, “We’ll be proud of you, no matter what.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Lily and Hugo came bounding over, throwing their arms around their big cousin. “Have fun at Hogwarts, Freddie!” Lily said, “Write me every week, and tell me all the things James and Al get told off for!”

“I will,” he laughed, returning their embrace.

“ _Pratiquez ton français avec tes cousins_ ,” Ophelia heeded.

He rolled his eyes. “I will.”

She put a finger to her ear. “ _Quoi_ ?”

Fred sighed. “ _Je vais pratiquer mon français avec Victoire, Louis, et Dominique, m’man._ _Je promets.”_

“They like to use that spooky code,” George whispered to his niece, “So they can keep secrets from me.”

She giggled. “That’s not a code, Uncle George!”

Ophelia cast her husband a wry look, before turning back to her son. “ _Qu'est-ce que ton père t'a donné sa boutique_?”

“ _Nothing_!” Fred and George replied in unison.

She looked between them dubiously. “Mmm-hmm.”

George stood, swatting at Harry. “Oi!” He gestured surreptitiously to James and Al, mouthing, “Do they have the map?”

Harry nodded urgently, avoiding his wife’s tiredly disapproving gaze.

George cocked an eyebrow, and mimed putting on a cloak.

Again, Harry nodded.

George gave him a thumbs-up.

“Uncle George!” James exclaimed, catching sight of the exchange, “Do you know what I found?”

“What did you find?” he grinned.

“Someone carved G+O+F into the wall in that tunnel outside the Great Hall, and I reckon that’s you and Aunt Phi and Uncle Fred!”

Ophelia went red in the face, but George laughed explosively. “There’s about six of those, ‘round the castle, and one in the forbidden forest. If you can find them all without us getting a letter from McGonagall about it, I’ll give you a Galleon!”

“ _George_!” Hermione scolded, tugging her son closer.

He sighed. “Fine. _Two_ Galleons.”

Hermione looked on the verge of spontaneous combustion, but the kids shrieked with laughter, James and Fred high-fiving each other. Uncle George always got them terribly wound up.

“Oh, poor Minerva,” Ophelia groaned, rubbing at her temples. “I’ll have to send her a bottle of our good stuff, from out at the _Château_.”

The train whistle sounded, plumes of white steam starting to puff from the engine. It sent a bolt of panic through Ophelia’s heart. It was too soon, she wasn’t ready.

“Okay, I have to go!” Freddie announced, trying to wriggle away from his parents. But they yanked him back over, wrapping him between them to squeeze the life out of him.

“Please behave,” his mother begged.

George chuckled. “You’ll do nothing of the sort, young man! Your mother and I have a reputation to maintain, at that school!”

“I’ll misbehave, but I won’t get caught,” he giggled, “How’s that, mum?”

“As good as I’ll get, I suppose,” she conceded, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We love you so, so much, Freddie.”

“I love you too.”

George helped him load his things on the train, amidst the crush of other proud fathers. She could see him whispering to their son, imparting some final wisdom.

“He’ll be alright,” Ginny reassured her, squeezing her arm, “The first one’s always terribly difficult. But he’s got his family with him.”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

With final hugs and kisses, Fred Garrick Weasley boarded the Hogwarts Express with his cousins. George all but had to tear his wife away from the train, and they took their places on the platform with the rest of their family.

While Ophelia was distracted, he knelt between his niece and nephew, and whispered, “One sickle says both your mums _and_ Aunt Phi all start crying their makeup off.”

Hugo giggled, scolding, “Uncle George, that’s mean!”

“Take the action, then, if you’re so clever!” he teased, digging a finger into his ribs.

The train whistle sounded once more, and with a sickening lurch in Ophelia’s stomach, the train wheels began to churn. Fred popped his head out the window, beaming and waving at his parents. “Bye, mum! Bye, dad! I love you!”

“We love you too!” George called out to him, “Say hi to Professor Longbottom for us! Chuck stuff at Peeves!”

“I will!”

“And vice versa!”

“ _Dad_!” he cackled.

“ _Pratique ton français!!_ ”

“Oh my god, I _will_!”

George hadn’t been far off in his estimate; Ophelia honestly was afraid she was about to cry. But he could see it, so he stood, and slipped his arm around her waist.

“I’m so worried about him, Georgie,” she murmured, eyes fixed on her son’s face as he disappeared into the distance.

“I know you are,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, “But he’s gonna have a great time. Beautiful and memorable and totally uneventful.”

People were beginning to filter back out into the main station, but the Weasley-Potter clan stood their ground. Ophelia watched in silence until the train was out of sight. She strained her ears until she couldn’t hear it anymore. She really, really hoped he’d be alright.

“Well!” George clapped his hands, turning towards his family, “That’s that! Who fancies coming back to ours for a drink and a smoke?”

Ron looked at his watch. “George, it’s 11:00 in the morning.”

“Yeah, but we’re _free_!” he insisted.

Hermione cleared her throat, nodding down towards Lily and Hugo.

“Oh, that’s right,” Ophelia remarked, looking to her husband with an intensely concerned expression, “I forgot, darling, Lily and Hugo _hate_ coming over to ours. There’s just nothing _fun_ to do, over there.”

“ _No, Aunt Phi!”_

_“That’s not true!”_

George shook his head morosely. “No, I reckon you’re right. And they hate riding in the car, as well.”

“MUM!!”

“COME _ON_!!”

Hermione sighed, looking down at her son. “You want to go to the shop?”

“YES!”

“GO TO THE SHOP! GO TO THE SHOP!”

“Alright!” she wearily conceded, “To Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, I suppose.”

The kids cheered, Harry, Ron, and George included.

“We’re not going to stay all day,” Ginny heeded, taking her daughter by the hand as they made for the barrier.

“Damn right, you’re not,” George chuckled, throwing an arm around Ophelia, “We’ve finally got the place to ourselves, again. I’m ready to crack open a bottle of that ‘good stuff’, and give my wife a tour of our furniture.”

“George!” she gasped, swatting him on the arm.

“Ophelia!” he mocked, leading her back out through the barrier.

It had been 19 years, five months, four weeks, and three days since the fall of the Dark Lord. 19 years since the brand on her forearm had fallen still, and turned red. 19 years since Fred had died. Since she’d carved that final X into her own cheek. And today, the sun was shining. Ophelia Weasley walked arm-in-arm with her husband, with her lover’s gold watch tucked neatly into her pocket. Their perfect, beautiful son was on his way to Hogwarts. He had red hair, and violet eyes.

Ophelia was smiling. She was happy, and loved.

All was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> itsdonefrodo.jpg
> 
> That's a wrap on Creatures of the Wind! Thank you guys so, so much for reading, and for hanging tough through all the sad parts. I started writing this story at age fifteen (the same age as Ophelia, on page one) and now, twelve years of off-and-on work later, it's finally finished. It's been an interesting experience to age alongside my characters, and I think that made it an even more fun and rewarding experience to write. I may add one other "chapter", just as a longer authors-note type addendum. I've just got some thoughts, and would be interested to hear yours.
> 
> Again, thank you, thank you, thank you. Like Ophelia, I know that not everyone will stay once you start telling your story. But the ones who do stay are worth the world. And for me, that's you.


	14. Addendum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read this unless you've read the whole thing. Hella spoilers.

My wife told me not to write this addendum, because she says its gonna ruin it and I should let people figure this stuff out on their own, but she’s not the boss of me and I don’t remotely expect anyone to look this deeply into my nonsense. But I want you guys to know how hard I worked!!! And maybe these will be fun Easter Eggs!

Ravens really can talk, I didn’t make that up. YouTube it. And they don’t sound like birds, either. They sound like actual people. It’s weird and amazing.

In Part 1, Chapter 2: Honey-Pie, You’re Not Safe Here, Ophelia tells George that Knockturn Alley is just a street, and he doesn't have to pledge the soul of his firstborn when you go down there. But... He kinda did end up pledging the soul of his firstborn by going down there, lol. To her, anyway.

In Part 1, Chapter 4: Makeshift Wings, Lucien Bole shouts at the twins to get their hair cut. Fred responds, “What, and look like you?” This is based on the true story of the first time David Bowie laid eyes on Mick Jagger. Someone in the audience at an early Stones concert shouted at him to get his hair cut, and Sir Mick responded thusly. Fitting, I think, because Lee Jordan later refers to Fred and George as “Mick and Keith.” (Part 2, Chapter, 15: You Let Me Feel Your Danger)

As is mentioned explicitly, near the end, Ophelia knows from Goblet of Fire onwards that Fred is going to die, but chooses to ignore it. See Part 1, Chapter 6: I’ll Feed You the Sky & Chapter 9: Feel the Fizz, the Electricity Run Through You. Also, Part 4, Chapter 5: Wolf in the Breast. (That’s where most of you caught on, I think, lol)

In Part 1, Chapter 16: Calliope House, Ophelia sings an Irish pub song called Raglan Road. The lyrics telegraph the entire story, from the moment the twins see her on the street in Diagon Alley (Part 1, Chapter 2: Honey-Pie, You’re Not Safe Here), to the moment George watches her walk away down the exact same stretch of street, hours before he asks her to marry him (Part 5, Chapter 7: The Kids Aren’t Alright).

When writing Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, I had a mental image of Davey Havok and Peter Steele, respectively. Peter Steele (Rabastan) was 6’7”. For Ophelia, I pictured a young Isabelle Adjani. _Possession_ -era. That pompous little git Augustin Travers looks like Timothée Chalamet, in my head. But Bellatrix will always be Helena Bonham Carter, for me. Her performance, while slightly different from what was originally written, is so iconic that I won’t ever be able to see anything else.

The song that the Death Eaters sing when she gets her Dark Mark is “Miseria Cantare” by AFI. Hence the chapter title. I recommend you give it a listen. Very Death-Eatery.

Ophelia and her mother are thematically linked, because they were both loved by a set of brothers. Rodolphus and Rabastan let it tear them apart. Fred and George let it bring them together.

All throughout, Fred and George occasionally do little 4th wall breaks. Almost like they’re the voice of the fandom. Like how in Part 2, Chapter 13: And You Feel Alive, George remarks that "watching The Chosen One cast _Expelliarimus_ eight thousand times in a row” isn’t very really their idea of a good time. They also take to referring to Harry, Ron, and Hermione as the Golden Trio, and in Part 3, Chapter 6: Iceblink Luck, Fred tells Ron that “everyone” has imagined them in a throuple, before.

Fred’s “meat triangle” nonsense (originating in Part 3, Chapter 5: Hang the DJ) comes from the Type O-Negative song “My Girlfriend’s Girlfriend.” A classic polyamory anthem. “They keep me warm on cold nights. We must be quite a sight. In our meat triangle, all tangled.” The song really did come out the year that chapter is set, and if you were to research “Muggle Goth Music” trying to find something your spooky girlfriend would like, that album wouldn’t be far from the top of the list.

I think Harry, Neville, and Ophelia form a kind of thematic triangle. (Triangles are important, can’t you tell? Especially meat ones.) Voldemort killed Harry’s parents, had Neville’s tortured to insanity, and turned Ophelia’s to his cause. Three different methods, three children whose lives were irreversibly re-directed because of it. Three heroes forged.

The Dr. Who movie that came out in 1996 really is hot garbage. I’m with Lee, they’d have been better off watching Monty Python. Although I think Fred and George would’ve taken to bewitching coconuts to float in the air behind them while they galloped around like idiots, so maybe we all dodged a bullet, there.

There are three chapters that are linked by the song Too Late for Gods by AFI. Part 2, Chapter 19: Too Late for Gods (in which Sirius dies), Part 4, Chapter 13: Go Down in Glory (in which Dobby dies) and Part 5, Chapter 5: M'aidez (in which Ophelia gets arrested). Two times that she really, by all accounts, should've sucked it up and blown her cover/ just died for the cause but "let" someone else do it instead, and the day the chickens finally came home to roost.

If you look at extended canon media, you will find that nearly all Sacred 28 families end with Squibs. Ollivander's Squib son is canon, I didn't make that up. I guess the final consequence of centuries of “Sacred Inter-Breeding” is that you wind up breeding the magic right out. It’s a good thing that literally only Ron broke that vicious cycle. Nice job, Harry, Ginny, Bill, Fleur, Draco, Astoria, George, and Ophelia. Goddamn Habsburgs, the lot of them. 

The final three chapters, featuring Fred II, link to earlier chapters with important Fred-and-Ophelia moments.

  * Part 5, Chapter 11: Bone-Setters corresponds to Part 3, Chapter 6: Iceblink Luck, in which she’s pretending to be only Fred’s girlfriend at Weasley Christmas. Both are named for the song/ feature lyrics from Iceblink Luck by Cocteau Twins.
  * Part 5, Chapter 12: The Young Dudes corresponds to Part 3, Chapter 13: Juvenile Delinquent Wrecks, in which she and Fred dance together in the flat. During both chapters, the characters listen to/ sing the song All the Young Dudes by Mott the Hoople, featuring David Bowie.
  * Part 5, Chapter 13: Perfect Day corresponds to Part 1, Chapter 16: Calliope House, in which she says to Fred, “You’re perfect, do you know that? You make me forget myself. I feel like I’m someone else, around you. Someone good.” Both feature the same lyrics from the song Perfect Day by Lou Reed.



I imagine that Scorpius is probably queer. Read his palm in Part 5, Chapter 12: The Young Dudes. (My wife says I’m not allowed to “imagine” things about my own canon, because once I imagine them, they **become** canon, ThAt’S HoW iT wOrKs, bleeehhhhh. But she’s not the boss of me.)

I also imagine that Ophelia (6’ tall, face tattoos, has killed people) and George (6’4”, known for making explosives) had a stern talk with Harry when he decided to name his kid after the guy who blasted the ear right off of George’s skull.

I’m queer, but every story I’ve ever written seems to feature a hetero power couple where the wife is just slightly better/ more powerful/ more influential than her badass-in-his-own-right husband. It’s a fun dynamic.

The Word document that this story was written on is 437 pages, and I worked on it for 12 years. No one edited or beta-read it, so I’m sorry if there are errors/ bad writing.


End file.
